Wish You Were Here
by Awahili
Summary: "Please let this be a horrible dream." When the unthinkable happens, the team comes together to grieve. But there's always more to the story, and a mystery will have them searching for more than just answers.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds, but I wish I did. Then we might finally get more of Hotch's back story.

Note: So I started writing this during my marathon of episodes. I watched 221 episodes (through "The Forever People") in a little less than 4 months. It is intended to be set sometime before "100" for obvious reasons, but not too much earlier. I was inspired by Mark Wills' song "Wish You Were Here," though only very vaguely. The rest just sort of unfolded on its own (as stories are wont to do). Enjoy, and please don't forget to leave any feedback. Since this is completely written, updates will be regular once a week. Cheers.

* * *

MORGAN

"Hey you," the ever-chipper voice of Penelope Garcia greeted him after just the second ring. He smiled and adjusted the shoulder strap of his duffel as the crowd bustled around him. O'Hare was always busy, but it seemed like there were more people than usual today. Perhaps it was just his eagerness to return home. He loved his family more than anything, but after a few days of downtime he was itching to get back to work.

"Hey yourself," he returned. "Just callin' to let you know I'm getting ready to board. How is everything?"

"Terrible," she said, though her teasing tone made him shake his head. "Reid has lapsed into a catatonic state, Rossi hasn't spoken since you left, and Hotch has had a complete mental breakdown. It's like no one can function without you." She let her joke sit for a moment before continuing. "Everything's fine, sugar. They're on their way back from Tennessee now. Did you enjoy your mini-vacation?"

"I did," he confirmed. "Ma says hello, by the way." He refrained from mentioning the rest of Momma Morgan's message, refusing to repeat her request for grandbabies. His family knew about his unique relationship with Penelope Garcia, and ever since they'd met her on a past visit to Virginia they took every opportunity to tease him about her.

"Well, hurry back. Clooney misses you." He could hear the smile in her voice, and he imagined her sitting on her couch at night with the dog's head resting in her lap. She always spoiled him when he stayed with her, and it took Morgan a few days of gentle scolding to keep the overgrown pup off of his own couch.

"Well, if it's just Clooney that misses me, maybe I'll extend my vacation a few days." He laughed loudly when she began to protest, tossing the older couple next to him an apologetic look when they looked at him in surprise. The airport intercom chimed, and a woman's voice announced that his flight was beginning to board. "Listen, I gotta go, baby girl. I'll see you soon."

"Bye Handsome."

He shut his phone and clipped it back to his belt as the attendant called for first class passengers. He allowed the older couple next to him to board first before following. As they made their way down the narrow corridor, the man turned to him with a knowing smile.

"Going home?"

"Yes sir," Morgan answered. "My mom and sisters are here, but I live and work in Virginia."

"Marge and I are headed to DC for our fortieth anniversary. She loves history, and I've got us passes to the Smithsonian." The man nodded toward his wife in front of him, and Morgan smiled.

"Well congratulations," he said. "I'm sure you'll love it." They slowed upon reaching the airplane door, and Marge gripped the side of the passageway as she stepped on board. "She nervous?"

"Doesn't like flying," the man told him. "Last time she was on one of these things, there was so much turbulence it made her sick. That was, oh, fifteen years ago I guess." He followed his wife on and turned his body slightly to fit through the narrow space between the cockpit and the rest of the airplane. "Reports are saying we're gonna hit a storm over West Virginia. She's none too thrilled about it."

"I fly all the time," Morgan reassured him, raising his voice to be heard by Marge. "I have never had a problem, even in a storm."

Marge and her husband ended up in the seats just across the aisle from him, and he offered to lift their suitcases up into the overhead compartments. Marge thanked him profusely, but he just waved her off. They spoke quietly as the other passengers boarded, and Morgan learned that Geoffrey had been a Vietnam vet, that they'd married when he was seventeen and she just fifteen. They'd wanted to do it before he shipped out, and she'd spent every night praying he'd come home safe.

"I don't think I'll ever forget the moment I saw him come off that boat," she said. "I just ran to him and cried for hours."

"That's sweet," Morgan said.

"Just wait," Geoffrey said with a teasing smile. "That girl of yours is gonna cry when you get home, and you've only just been gone a few days."

"Oh, I don't have a girlfriend," he corrected politely.

"Then who were you talking to just before?" he asked.

"Geoffrey!" Marge slapped him on the arm, and Morgan chuckled.

"Garcia? She's just a good friend." It wasn't the first time someone had mistaken them for something more than best friends, and it probably wasn't the last. He'd gotten used to correcting others' misconceptions.

"Well, she knows how to make you laugh," Geoffrey continued. "Trust me, son, that's probably the most important part of a good relationship." Marge shushed him again and he didn't say anything more. Morgan just smiled in response and pulled his headphones from his bag. As much as he loved talking with people, he knew the best way to pass the two hour flight from Chicago to DC was to turn his music on and close his eyes.

He only half-listened as the flight attendants went through their safety briefing, his headphones slung behind his neck. He'd heard it a million times before, and the likelihood of him needing the information was very slim. Reid had spouted enough statistics on planes to last him a lifetime, so he knew the odds. Marge, on the other hand, seemed about ready to jump from her seat, and they had barely made to the runway. Geoffrey had taken the window seat, so Morgan leaned over and placed a warm hand over her arm.

"It's gonna be just fine, ma'am." He gave her his best smile - the one Garcia had coined his "reel 'em in grin" - and allowed her to shift her grip to his hand. He felt the telltale rumble of the engines as they gathered power, and when the aircraft shot forward Marge tightened her hold. He held her hand as they lifted from the ground, and Morgan gave it a reassuring squeeze as he felt his stomach flip from the change in inertia. Her eyes closed tightly as she regained her composure, and by the time the plane had leveled out a bit she opened them again.

"Thank you," she smiled. "That wasn't nearly as bad as I had imagined." Geoffrey patted her other hand gripped in his own, and he shot Derek a grateful look.

"Don't mention it," Morgan pulled his hand back and gripped the headphones hanging around his neck. "Let me know if you need anything else." He quickly adjusted his seat and switched the music on, content to sleep through the rest of the flight. As the attendants began serving drinks, he dozed off to the soft strains of India Arie in his ear.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to those who read the first chapter, and a special thanks to those few that left a review. It's always nice to know how well my stories are being received. Also, I will probably be posting semi-weekly on Tuesdays and Fridays. I've got about 25 chapters left, so stay put for the long haul.

* * *

REID

"I don't see what the big deal is," he shrugged his shoulders as Prentiss scoffed in the seat next to him.

"Oh come on!" she exclaimed. "She was practically all over you. You should call her."

"Who?" JJ twisted in her seat to look at the two agents in the middle of the SUV. Their latest case had taken them to eastern Tennessee, and Hotch knew driving a few hours would be cheaper than sending the jet. Rossi was stretched out asleep in the back, so Hotch had volunteered to drive home. Reid was beginning to regret turning down JJ's offer of the front seat as Prentiss' teasing increased.

"The friend of the victim's sister, Amanda Payne? They exchanged phone numbers." Prentiss' grin was almost predatory, and Reid squirmed uncomfortably when JJ turned just a bit more to smile at him.

"Oh yeah?"

"It's nothing guys!" His protest was just a little too loud, and Hotch looked up from the road to eye them in the rearview mirror. "I gave her my card and told her call me if she wanted to talk - like any good _agent_ would do."

"And then?" Prentiss teased.

"Then nothing," he replied, probably a little too quickly.

"She wrote her number on your hand!" Prentiss grabbed his wrist and held it up triumphantly.

He snatched his hand back and scowled. "I'm not calling her," he said with finality. "Hotch, back me up here."

"Getting involved with someone from a case isn't a good idea," he confirmed. JJ just shrugged and turned back around as Prentiss rolled her eyes.

"Men," she muttered just loud enough for Reid to hear, but out of earshot of their boss. She turned away to look out the window, leaving Reid to his thoughts. He had endured Prentiss' teasing ever since they'd left, and he was grateful she'd finally relented. He knew none of his teammates were intentionally malicious, and he took their teasing in stride, but he'd always been notoriously uncomfortable with interpersonal communication - what Morgan would refer to as "small talk." He was suddenly thankful that Morgan wasn't with them - the older agent would never let him hear the end of this.

He knew he'd been luckier than most with his particular brand of intelligence. At CalTech he'd been a genius among geniuses, and though he'd been quite a bit younger than his peers he'd never felt ostracized or unwelcome. By the time he was 20, he'd acquired a Ph.D in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering. He'd taken a few courses in Criminal Justice for fun and more than a few in Psychology for his mother, ultimately completing two more degrees. One of his professors had been an FBI agent in his prime, and after a few calls and several tests Reid had entered the FBI at 21, two years shy of the Bureau's minimum age.

"Hey, boy genius," JJ's voice pulled him out of his reverie. He blinked a few times and looked at her with a sheepish expression. "What's going on in that big brain of yours?"

"Technically, my brain is no larger than yours, I just -"

"Just a figure of speech, Spence," she laughed. "It just looked like you were thinking pretty hard. Anything I can help with?"

"No," he shook his head. "Just thinking." His mind often wandered, but he didn't think JJ cared about his reminisces. "Hey, how's Henry?"

If she was surprised by the subject change, she didn't show it. Her face lit up as she answered. "He's great," she said. "He'll be walking soon. I can't wait."

"Yes you can," Hotch interjected with small but rare smile. He was obviously recalling a memory of his own son, Jack. "You'll be begging for a return to the crawling days. The first time he takes off at a run, your heart will stop."

"Will is so paranoid," JJ chuckled. "He's already stocked up on bandaids, antiseptic ointment, and cold packs. I thought I was going to be the parent who went overboard with everything we see on this job."

Reid cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter in his seat. "Statistically, children who grow up with one or more overprotective parents are more likely to be obese. Also, overprotected children are more likely to be bullied, leading to a higher risk of -"

"Spence, Spence," JJ interrupted him before he could take off, "I get it. I'll keep an eye on Will."

Reid nodded awkwardly and sat back. He wasn't sure exactly what being a godfather meant beyond the literal definition, but he was determined to live up to whatever expectations JJ had for him. After his father had left, it had been just him and his mom. Extended family had kept their distance as Diana's condition deteriorated, and so Spencer had grown up alone. Ever since he'd joined the BAU, he'd gained more than a group of coworkers and friends; he'd gained a family. He was determined to do whatever he had to to keep it.

"We still going to Gloria's tonight?" Nights out with the team had been a ritual instituted long before he'd joined, and this month it was Reid's turn to pick. Garcia and Morgan usually picked places with loud music, a dance floor, and lots of people, but Reid preferred a more intimate setting with those closest to him. It was a ritual they all needed to relax and recharge after weeks spent traveling the country dealing with the worst humanity had to offer. In the years he'd been with the team, none of them had ever missed a night out. The nods he received in answer to his question confirmed that the tradition would continue.

They walked through the glass doors of the BAU a little over an hour later, muscles weary from the long drive. Hotch and Rossi disappeared into their offices as the rest of them moved to their desks. JJ walked in last, her phone pressed against her ear.

"Yeah, I should be home in half an hour." She smiled widely and shouldered her bag. "I love you, too." She keyed her phone off and looked up at the team. "I'll see you at the restaurant at seven. Get some rest, guys." They all waved goodbye as she disappeared down the hall, eager to see her husband and son after a long case. The door had barely closed behind her when it opened again, allowing a rather perky technical analyst into their office.

"Welcome home, superheroes." Garcia was beaming as she strode into the doors. "What's new in the world of my favorite profilers?"

"Reid got a girl's number," Prentiss replied excitedly, and Reid shot her a contemptuous look.

"Oh, details, lover boy!" Garcia bounced in place as she whirled on the youngest member of the team. "Was she pretty?"

"Um...Ye-yes...I guess so," he stammered.

"Aww," Garcia clicked her tongue sympathetically. "Doesn't sound like she had the spark."

"The spark?"

"You know," Garcia sighed wistfully, "that moment when your eyes meet across the room and you get that bubbly feeling in your tummy and in that second nothing else matters except the two of you and you just know that she's the most beautiful person you've ever seen."

"Have I had you drug-tested recently?"

"And a special hello to you, Bossman." She looked up as Hotch descended the stairs to the bullpen. "Did you get my report?"

"I did," he nodded. "Now if only the rest of the team was as efficient as you." Her grin doubled at the rare praise from their team leader. Reid knew she often felt like she was outside the team when they left her to go out into the field, though they kept in contact almost constantly. And though she worked on cases for other BAU teams, Reid knew Hotch wouldn't use any other technical analyst in the pool. It was the highest form of praise from their normally stoic leader.

"Well I'm off, my loves. Morgan comes in in just a little over an hour. See you tonight!" She breezed out the door with as much spirit as she'd entered, and Reid found himself smiling.

"I swear she could power a small city," Prentiss joked from across the aisle, and Reid laughed his agreement as he settled into his desk to finish his own report.

Forty minutes later he closed the file, satisfied that he'd recorded everything of importance. His reports tended to be a little more lengthy than the others', but Reid attributed that to the fact that he recalled more than they did. His memory allowed him to recall even the tiniest minutiae, and Hotch had often praised his attention to detail.

"Here you go," he said as he entered Hotch's office, holding the report out for his boss. But Hotch wasn't listening; his attention was focused completely on his computer screen. "Hotch?"

"Reid," the older agent's voice was steady and low, as though he didn't want to alert anyone else. "What was Morgan's flight number?"

Reid instantly recalled the text they'd all received from Morgan detailing his departure and arrival times. The flight number had been tacked on to the end more as a habit than a necessity.

"United Airlines 1214. Why?"

Hotch gripped the side of his screen and rotated it so Reid could see. The bold headline stood out above a picture that needed no caption.

 **UNITED 1214 CRASHES IN RURAL WEST VIRGINIA; TEAMS STILL SEARCHING FOR SURVIVORS**


	3. Chapter 3

GARCIA

Dulles seemed busier than usual as she pulled into her parking space in the garage next to the terminal. Esther purred as she idled for a moment, gathering her bag and her welcome home gift for Morgan. When she had everything she turned the key and opened the door, stepping into the brightly lit parking structure.

"Excuse me," she turned sideways to squeeze by a family trying to corral their children and bags, obviously preparing for a vacation. She made it into the main terminal area, surprised at the sheer number of people milling about for a Friday afternoon. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the Arrivals board, and she scanned the list for the flights coming in from Chicago.

"Where are you?" She felt her phone buzz in her pocket, but she ignored it for the more pressing issue. "That's weird." United Flight 1214 was nowhere on the board, and she quickly bustled over to the information desk.

"Can I help you?" The woman behind the counter looked more frazzled than normal, and for a moment Penelope wanted to ask her if there was anything she could do to help. The feeling passed quickly, and she refocused on her quest.

"Yes, hi, I'm looking for the baggage claim for United Flight 1214." The woman's entire face contorted into a look that Garcia had seen on her team too many times; it was the look they often gave to the families of victims. Something tightened low in her belly, but she forced herself to shake it off.

"Please come with me." The woman - who Penelope now guessed was no older than 25 - came around the desk and wrapped an arm around her shoulders in a comforting gesture. Garcia shrugged her off and stopped.

"What's going on?" She demanded, her heart beating double time in her chest as her phone buzzed again. A sick, dizzy feeling washed over her and she fumbled in her pocket to retrieve the item, praying it was Derek calling to tell her his flight had been delayed. She checked the ID and felt her breath hitch in her throat. It wasn't Derek.

It was Hotchner.

She thumbed the device on and held it to her ear. "Sir?"

"Garcia, are you at the airport?" He sounded odd, like he was coaxing a frightened animal out of a corner, and she swallowed over a sudden lump in her throat. The senior agent didn't call her directly unless he needed something for a case. With their latest job wrapped up, and the runaround she was getting from the airport staff, there was only one reason for his call now.

"What's going on, sir?" She cursed the quiver in her voice, but she couldn't dwell on that for long. If something had happened to Derek, she wasn't sure all the dams in the world could hold back her emotions.

"Ma'am," the attendant was gesturing for her to follow, and Garcia obeyed automatically as Hotch spoke.

"Garcia, something's happened. Reid and Prentiss are on their way there to get you."

The sick feeling in her gut solidified into terror, and she dropped her bags onto the floor. "No," she whispered.

"Garcia, listen..." Hotch's voice faded out as her mind took over playing out every horrible scenario.

"Ma'am," the woman was at her side gripping her elbow to keep her from falling. "Ma'am I'm going to take the phone." Garcia's fingers were limp as the woman pulled the phone from her grasp and held it to her ear. "Hello? Yes, I understand. Okay." She hung up and gathered the bags from the floor. "Ma'am, I need you to follow me." A security officer had come over to help, and between the two of them they managed to escort Garcia into a small room.

Her movements were automatic as she was lowered into a chair and given a small paper cup filled with water. A man in a sharp suit and scuffed shoes came over and identified himself as an administrator for United Airlines. His words were soft as he gave her the company line regarding the accident, his apologies and condolences falling on deaf ears even as her mind processed their meaning. Time must have passed, but she didn't register anything until Prentiss crouched down in front of her.

"Penelope?" The tech looked up finally, seeing the truth of her worst thoughts mirrored in the agent's eyes. She crumpled forward, sobbing aloud as two pairs of arms came around her. Reid was at her back, forgoing his usual aversion to touch in an effort to comfort her. Her stomach rolled as her friends just held on, and her throat tightened with grief.

"Come on," Reid's voice was soft in her ear. "The others are waiting at the office." He stood and lifted her with him, her hands still gripping tightly in Emily's blouse. He gathered her things and the administrator's contact information before following the girls out to the waiting car.

Emily sat in the back with her as Reid drove them back to the BAU. They garnered strange looks from the agents around them as they walked through the lobby, and Garcia felt anger bubble up within her. How dare they continue on as though everything was exactly the same! Didn't they know the world had suddenly crumbled and nothing was ever going to be okay again? Didn't they realize a light had been snuffed out, one of their own, and would never again brighten anyone's life?

"Come on," Emily's arm around her shoulders tightened, and Garcia realized she'd stopped in the middle of the rotunda. Reid was holding the elevator open, and one look from him kept any other agents from riding along. Once inside, Reid pressed the button that would take them to the BAU, and suddenly Garcia felt her breath catch.

"I can't,"she slumped against the wall of the elevator as her breath came faster and shorter. The world spun around her and as her friends tried to hold her up she closed her eyes tight. "No, I can't." Going up there, seeing the rest of the team so obviously grieving their loss, would make it real.

"Garcia? Penelope?" Emily moved around her to grip her arms, bending at the knees slightly to look her in the eye. Garcia felt her legs wobble, and only Reid's quicker than normal reflexes kept her from toppling to the floor. The doors opened, and suddenly stronger arms were supporting her.

"I've got her." It was Hotch, his steady tenor an anchor as the storm raged on around her. She clung to him and allowed him to guide her to the conference room, where Rossi, JJ, and Will were sitting around the table. JJ's eyes were red and puffy, and Will was gripping her hand firmly as she sniffed. The moment Garcia saw her, the tech left her boss' arms and collapsed into her friend's embrace.

"Pen," JJ whispered, standing to meet her halfway. The two women stood there clinging to one another as Garcia let out another harsh sob. A warm hand at her back startled her, and for just a moment she let herself believe that he was there. Her eyes shut as the fantasy washed over her, and a tiny part of her expected to hear his voice in her ear calling her "baby girl" and telling her it was going to be alright. But when her eyes opened it was Hotch's steady gaze that met her. She could see the pain in his brown eyes, and that he was trying so hard to keep himself composed for his team.

She pulled away from JJ's shoulder and wiped her eyes and nose, not caring about her appearance as she took a shaky breath. "What happened?"

He hesitated a moment, and she knew he didn't want to tell her. She knew he cared more than he showed - they couldn't do what they did day in and day out without compassion and empathy. This tragedy - for there was no other word to describe what had happened today - would affect them all, but their unit chief knew she would suffer most of all. Derek Morgan had been her rock and her best friend, her protector and her comfort. The moment he said it aloud, Hotch removed any hope she held in her heart.

"Preliminary reports are saying structural failure," he recited, using the tone he normally reserved for press conferences and police briefings. She knew it was probably the only thing that was keeping him from breaking down as well. "Teams have been combing the area, but as of now they haven't found any survivors."

Though she expected them, the words were like a blow to her very soul. Hands gripped her and lowered her into a chair as a sob tore from her throat. JJ was there again, holding her close and crying with her.

"Please let this be a horrible dream," Garcia whispered. "Let me wake up." JJ rocked her as her emotions finally broke free and crashed over her. "Please," she choked, "I want to wake up."


	4. Chapter 4

HOTCH

"I'm gonna take her home with us," JJ told him quietly. "The others are coming as well." The invitation in her voice was clear, but Hotch shook his head.

"I have some things to finalize here," he replied. "I have to call his mother, then coordinate with the NTSB for updates." JJ's hand was warm through the sleeve of his Oxford.

"Come over after," she pressed. "None of us should be alone." He finally nodded his consent and watched as she walked back over to Garcia. Her arms came around the tech easily, and Will helped to lift her from her seat. The entire group shuffled out of the conference room as one unit, leaving Hotch standing at the board.

His thoughts swirled out of control, and not for the first time he wished Gideon hadn't disappeared. The responsibility that had fallen so suddenly on his shoulders had never felt heavier, and he moved with leaden steps to his office. He found Fran Morgan's number in Derek's personnel file, and his fingers were shaky as he pressed the buttons.

"Hello?" The voice that greeted him was soft and strained, as though the person on the other end was trying to keep her emotions in check.

"Mrs. Morgan? This is Aaron Hotchner." He needed no further introduction, and Fran Morgan broke down into sobs at his words.

"I didn't want to believe it," she choked. "My baby boy."

"Ma'am, I am very sorry for your loss." The words were rote, a repeated mantra he'd said so many times. He always meant them - losing a loved one was the worst possible feeling - but he wasn't sure what else to say, or how to ease the grief that the woman was obviously feeling.

"He spoke about you often. All of you," Fran said. "I just can't believe..." She stifled a sob again, and Hotchner felt his own throat tighten.

"If there is anything I can do for you or your family, don't hesitate to call me. Anytime, it doesn't matter." It was the best he could do from so far away; it felt like a drop of water against an inferno.

"I appreciate that," she breathed. "Thank you for calling."

"Of course," he answered. "We're all still trying to come to terms with it ourselves."

"How is Penelope?"

Hotch smiled at her motherly concern despite the situation. "Devastated," he said honestly. "We all are. Derek was such a huge part of our lives, and a wonderful man. Everyone will miss him terribly."

"Thank you," she sniffed. "I'll be sure to let you know about...about funeral arrangements. He'd wanna be buried with his daddy." Her breath hitched again, and Hotch pressed his lips together to keep his composure. "You go be with your family, Agent Hotchner. Tell them how much you love them."

"I will. Take care." The line disconnected, leaving him feeling empty. Her words echoed in his head, and his fingers were dialing another number before he could stop himself.

"Hello?"

"Haley," he replied shortly.

"Aaron, what's going on? What's wrong?" He felt his heart lighten at her words; she could always read him so well, and even after their separation she could tell something was off from just one word.

"It's Derek," he told her, trying to keep his voice steady. "His plane crashed in West Virginia. They're still searching for survivors, but..."

"Oh my God, Aaron. I'm sorry." She and Derek had gotten on from day one, and he knew she would be reeling.

"Thank you. Listen, I know it's not Friday, but do you think I could have Jack for the evening? I just...I need to..." Words failed him as his emotions swelled, and he heard her soft noise of sympathy.

"Of course," she agreed immediately. "I'll call Jessica and let her know you're on your way."

"I should be there in an hour or so. I have one more phone call to make." He flipped through his old fashioned Rolodex until he found the name he was looking for. "We're all going to JJ's this evening, but you can reach me on my cell if you need me."

"Take care of yourself, Aaron."

"I will," he told her. "Thank you, Haley."

It took him almost ten minutes before he felt in control enough to place his last call. Several years ago he'd worked a case with the National Transportation and Safety Board, and his contact still worked as a high level administrator at their regional office in Ashburn, Virginia.

"Dan," Hotch didn't waste time when the line connected. "This is Aaron Hotchner."

"Aaron," the man on the other end greeted. "I'd start with pleasantries, but it sounds urgent."

"It is." Hotch took a breath, then continued. "One of my agents was on the flight that went down in West Virginia."

Dan swore softly under his breath. "I'm sorry, Aaron."

"Thank you," Hotch forced his own emotions to the side and focused on the reason for his call. "Listen, I understand you and your team have things in hand, but if you could keep me apprised of any updates about the accident it would mean a lot to me."

"You got it, Aaron. As soon as I know something, you will." Hotch had only met Daniel Heffield once, but the clean cut retired Air Force Colonel had been open and friendly with everyone he met. If he said he'd stay in touch, Hotch trusted him.

"I appreciate it, Dan."

"How are you holding up?"

"Honestly it hasn't really sunk in yet. My team is shaken up; Morgan meant a lot to us." Hotch hated speaking about his agent in the past tense, but the reality of the situation was that no one had survived. Teams had been combing the area for hours, and so far no one had been found alive.

"If there's anything else I can do for you or your team, let me know." Dan repeated his condolences once more before disconnecting, leaving Hotch in silence in his office. The day had taken its toll on him, and he was weary both physically and mentally. As he gathered his jacket and keys his desk phone rang shrilly, and he answered out of habit.

"Hotchner."

"Agent Hotchner, this is Melanie at the switchboard." Hotch's mind recalled the girl's face immediately. She had been a dispatcher with the Annapolis PD back when a series of murders had plagued the city. The suspect had called the police three times in one week to report his own kills, and Melanie Stewart had been the unlucky person on the other end of the first call. After that, he'd refused to speak to anyone but her. Hotchner had utilized her rapport with the unsub to lure him out into the open, and when she'd applied for a job with the FBI he'd happily been one of her references. "I have a woman on the line who said she needs to speak with someone who deals with mass murderers. I immediately thought of you."

He really didn't want to deal with a new case right now, but he was confident he could route her to another team. "Thank you, put her through." It rang once before connecting.

"This is SSA Aaron Hotchner," he began. "Who is this?"

"Are you an agent? You catch killers?" It was a young woman's voice, he guessed no older than thirty. Her voice trembled with grief, but beneath it Hotch could identify relief and surprise. She hadn't expected to reach him so easily.

"My team deals with a variety of cases," he explained. "What is your name?" He really didn't have time to play games, though he tried to stay calm and professional on the phone.

"You heard about the crash in West Virginia?"

Her question erased all thoughts of propriety from his mind. His voice was harsh and cold as he replied. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but that is not -"

"It didn't crash," she interrupted.

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean, it did crash," she hurried on. "I'm sorry, it's just..." she stifled a sob, then continued on in a whisper, as though she didn't want to let anyone else hear. "What I meant was...it wasn't an accident."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I will never post spoilers for my own work (i.e. "Character Death" or "No Character Death"). I have received a couple of PMs asking me if Morgan really is dead (and how they weren't going to continue reading if he was) and all I can say is this story is what it is. Each and every story on this site is unique, and many of them contain wonderful plots, dialogue, and other story elements. There is a lot of talent contained in this site, and if you're clicking on stories just because there's a note that says "No Character Death" in the summary then you are probably missing out on a lot of fantastic reads. I will tell you that at this point in writing the story, I did not know if Morgan was dead or alive. I had an idea where I wanted this story to go, and that idea morphed and twisted during the course of writing, as stories do. I do hope that the story is intriguing enough to keep readers around, but if you're looking for a clear cut "dead" or "alive" then alas, you will be disappointed. I will not say.

As always, thank you for taking the time to read and - for those select few - to review. Feedback is appreciated, and encouragement is always welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

JJ

The house was unusually quiet for having six adults and an infant inside. Garcia was wrapped up in an afghan on the couch, her feet in Prentiss' lap as the others sat wordlessly around the darkened living room. As JJ came back downstairs, she paused in the archway to watch them. She'd been with the team for so long, seen so many people come and go, but one thing always remained the same - they were a family. Gideon's sudden disappearance had left a hole, one she and Hotch had scrambled to fill. They had rebounded well enough, and she knew she had to give a lot of credit to Morgan. While she and Hotch had been bogged down with bureaucratic responsibilities, Morgan had seen to the team's needs. With him gone, she wasn't entirely sure how they would recover.

"You get Henry down?" Will's drawl interrupted her thoughts, and she jumped even as she nodded. His hands rested on her shoulders, and she allowed herself to lean back against his chest.

"I just can't believe this is happening," she whispered, careful not to disturb her friends.

"I know," he kissed her head and rubbed her arms in a gesture of comfort. "I wish there was something I could do to make this better for you."

JJ lifted her arms and let him wrap his arms around her. Standing there, surrounded by him, she felt the first wave of relief wash over her. They would get through this together. Until then, they would have to mend their broken family the best they could. A soft knock interrupted their moment, and she pulled away from him to answer the front door.

"Hey Hotch," she smiled and stepped back to let him in. "Hey Jack." The four year old smiled and held out a sticky hand. She scooped him up from his father's side and brought them both into the house. "Everyone's just through there."

"How are they?"

"Garcia cried herself to sleep about half an hour ago, and Reid hasn't said a word since we left the office. Guess which one worries me more?" They shared a humorless smile as they joined their family in the living room. JJ led Jack over to Reid, who immediately perked up in the young boy's presence.

"Can I leave him with you?" JJ asked softly, and Reid nodded. Jack climbed up into his lap and began his favorite game of asking Reid any question he could think of. With the genius and four year old occupied for the moment, JJ joined Hotch and Rossi over by the door.

She knew the answer just from the look on Hotch's face, but she asked anyway. "You call his mom?"

"Yeah," Hotch kept his voice low to keep from disturbing the rest of them. Emily looked up from her bottle of water, but made no move to leave her seat. Garcia shifted in her sleep, but thankfully stayed under. Turning his attention back to JJ and Rossi, he continued. "I also contacted Dan Heffield at the NTSB. He's going to keep us updated on the investigation." He thought about the phone call he'd received just before he left. "And there's something else."

Rossi perked up. "Something else?"

Hotch nodded and turned to JJ. "Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"

"The den," she motioned toward the hallway, and the two men followed her through the kitchen. A love seat was pushed against the far wall facing a widescreen television. A baby bouncer sat in the middle of the floor surrounded by a plethora of infant toys and various supplies. JJ and Rossi sat down, but Hotch paced the length of the floor a few times before stopping in front of them.

"I got a call just before I left from a woman asking if I'd heard about the crash. At first she wouldn't tell me her name, and I thought it was some sort of sick prank. But then she said..." he paused, still reeling from the information the woman had given him. "She said the crash wasn't an accident."

"What?" JJ shot up out of her seat, and Rossi wasn't far behind.

"I don't understand," he probed.

"There's more," Hotch continued. "She said her fiance was on board, a researcher who was working on something big. She thinks someone crashed the plane on purpose to kill him."

"Did she give you a name?" Rossi asked. "Or even how she came by this information?"

"I wrote everything down, but I'm not sure how seriously to take this," Hotch shook his head. "She might just be looking for an excuse for her loss."

"She's not the only one," JJ added. "We walk into danger every day on this job, but this...we were all blindsided."

"Daddy?" Jack came around the corner, and Hotch knelt down as the boy came closer.

"What's up buddy?" He hoisted his son up to his hip, marveling at how big he was getting.

"Daddy, where's Uncle Derek?" The simple question left them speechless, and JJ covered her mouth with her hand to hide the quiver of her lip.

"He's..." Hotch struggled with the answer, before settling on an easy truth. "He's not here right now, bud."

"Okay," the acceptance of the answer came as easily as the question, and he squirmed in his father's arms. "Can I play with Henry?"

"He's napping right now sweetie," JJ told him. "As soon as he gets up, you can play with him as much as you like." She looked around at the toy-covered den. "In the meantime, can you play quietly in here?" He nodded and squirmed more until Hotch let him down. He settled onto the floor with a pile of plush blocks covered in various cartoon animals and bold, colorful letters. JJ waited until they were a few paces away before pitching her voice low. "What are we going to do?"

"Mrs. Morgan is going to let me know about funeral arrangements," Hotch said. "In the meantime, Strauss has approved a week of leave for the whole team. After that..." He trailed off, unwilling to voice what they were all thinking. One day soon, they would all have to go back to work. They'd lost members of their team before, but never had one been killed. Elle had resigned, Gideon had disappeared, but both were presumably still alive and well somewhere. But life went on, and they couldn't stop doing their jobs just because they'd lost a teammate. The question was, how long would it take for them to look at the new guy and not see just Derek's replacement.

"First thing tomorrow, I'll start looking for possible candidates," JJ said as her phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket and checked the ID. It was a number she didn't recognize, so she answered as professionally as possible. "Agent Jareau."

"Agent Jareau, this is Kevin Lynch," the analyst's voice was tight with worry. "I heard about what happened and I've been trying to get in touch with Penelope all day. Is she with you?"

"She's here," JJ confirmed. "We're at my place."

"Good," he sighed with relief. "Do you think it would be alright if I came by after work? I...I'd like to make sure she's okay." There was a strain in Kevin's voice she hadn't heard before. The unique nature of Morgan and Garcia's relationship had been a source of contention for him, and as Penelope's friend JJ had heard all about Kevin's insecurities regarding the matter. Still, it sounded like he was willing to put his own feelings aside for Penelope's sake, and JJ's estimation of Kevin shot up a few notches.

"Sure," JJ agreed. "She's asleep right now, but when she wakes up I'll let her know you're stopping by." She gave him her address and hung up before turning back to the two men still standing behind her. "Kevin's coming by later," she told them.

"Good," Hotch nodded. "She's going to need someone to lean on."

"You think she won't lean on us?" Rossi asked.

"We're too close," JJ explained. "She knows we're grieving, too. She won't want to add to our troubles."

"That's ridiculous," Rossi shook his head, and JJ agreed.

"That's Garcia," she chuckled. "She thinks about everyone else first. Honestly, I'm not entirely sure how I'll be able to walk into that bullpen knowing he won't be there." JJ took a deep breath and shook her head. "For her, it'll be ten times worse." With that, she left the two men standing in the den as she made her way back to the living room to sink into the quiet grief that had consumed them all.


	6. Chapter 6

JOHN DOE

Home. He had to get home.

His feet stumbled over nothing as he shuffled forward, the soft breeze cooling his sweat-soaked skin. The sun was at his back as he walked, and his head throbbed in time with his pounding heart.

 _"What's happening!"_

 _"Oh, my God!"_

 _"Please..."_

He blinked blearily and wiped the sweat from his eyes. The field stretched out in front of him for miles, but he couldn't stop. He had to keep going, had to get home.

 _"This can't be happening..."_

 _"Our Father, who art in heaven..."_

 _"...this is the Captain..."_

He shook his head quickly, wincing at the sharp lance of pain behind his eyes. The flashes were getting more frequent, but his mind couldn't grasp any one of them for longer than a few seconds. He wasn't sure what they meant, but every time they came he felt a little more off balance. The breeze turned colder, and the field in front of him morphed into a smattering of trees. He stumbled on, his feet catching on an exposed tree root. He fell and rolled down a hill, unable to stop himself from crying out as his arm bent around behind him at an odd angle.

 _"...never got to tell her I loved her..._

 _"Mommy! I'm scared!"_

 _"...hold my hand..."_

A chill woke him and he jolted awake, his breath puffing in the night air. Groaning, he managed to push himself into a sitting position. The beat of his heart pounded a staccato rhythm in his head, and it took him a few tries to get to his feet.

His steps were muffled by the damp leaves on the ground, and he spun around a moment before striking off to his left. The trees loomed all around him, blocking out the surrounding scenery. Screams echoed in his mind, and his fingers curled around an imaginary hand as he tripped forward. Haunting blue eyes stared lifelessly at him, and he sobbed even as he continued on.

The skyline ahead of him lightened gradually, the dark giving way to a new day. His throat was on fire and his head swam, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The ground beneath his feet grew more solid, and when he looked down he saw the forest floor had changed to concrete. A sharp honk startled him and he leaped backwards as tires squealed on the road.

"Oh my God," a man's voice cut through the screams in his head. "Are you alright?"

Cold hands pale with death reached for him. He pushed away, his eyes wide and frightened.

"Hey, take it easy." Another voice on his other side. Surrounding him. He had to get away.

"No," he murmured, scrambling back as hands reached for him again.

"It's alright," the first man said. "You're bleeding. We need to get you to a hospital."

"I...no..."

"It's alright." The hands were warmer now, pink and alive. "It's alright." Those words repeated again, drowning out the screams and giving him something else to cling to. Those words anchored him as the world spun around him, surrounding him, devouring him.

 _"...African American male, mid-thirties, suffering from exposure as well as multiple lacerations and contusions..."_

 _"...no identification..."_

 _"What the hell happened to him?"_

Home. He had to get home.


	7. Chapter 7

The next few chapters will happen concurrently, detailing a few of the team members and their next day reactions. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review. It means the world to me!

* * *

GARCIA

Her head was pounding when she finally cracked her eyes open. The dim light of the rising sun filtered in through her blinds, and the horror of the previous day crashed down on her in one tremendous wave. She felt her throat tighten, but she couldn't produce the tears that had flowed so freely yesterday.

Shuffling footsteps approached from her kitchen, and for a split second she thought maybe it had been a horrible dream. The thought took hold in her mind and she latched onto it like a lifeline. Morgan had stayed over once whenever she was really ill; maybe it had all be some fever dream that had played out her worst nightmare, and he was coming around that corner with a tray of eggs, toast, and orange juice. Any moment, she would hear his sweet voice fill her ears and she could let go of the gut-wrenching feeling that had seized in her stomach.

"How are you feeling?" Kevin's soft tenor floated through before he appeared in her doorway. He held a glass of water and a long-forgotten bottle of aspirin he must have found in her medicine drawer. He couldn't have missed the way her entire expression fell at the sight of him, but he seemed to ignore it in favor of offering her a hesitant smile.

"Oh God," she sank back into the pillows with a shaky breath, and seconds later she felt his weight dipping the side of the mattress. Her mind began to piece together the events of the evening before - Kevin's arrival, her crying into his shoulder for what seemed like hours, him lowering her into his passenger seat and driving back to her place, him tucking her into bed and holding her all night.

"Here," he offered her the water and two aspirin. "You didn't eat anything last night. This will help your headache."

"It wasn't a dream?" she pleaded softly, and he shook his head.

"I'm sorry Pen," he looked genuinely sorrowful, and she took the water and the pills from him. "I don't know what to say to make this better for you."

"Better? How could this ever be better?" she snapped, immediately regretting it when he flinched. "I'm sorry, Kevin," she sat up straighter. "I just can't...I don't know what to do right now."

"Rest," he said simply. "Eat something, talk to me. Scream at me if you need to. Don't just hold it all in." He reached out and settled his hand over hers. "I know how much he meant to you, Penelope."

"Please don't," she whispered, pulling her hand away.

"Don't what?"

"Talk about him in the past tense. I can't think about..." She swung her legs over the opposite side of the bed, pausing a moment as a wave of dizziness washed over her.

"I'm sorry," he stood, too, "but he's gone. You can't...you can't pretend otherwise. It's not healthy." He walked around her bed, meeting her halfway and halting her attempted escape into the living room.

"I don't care!" she screamed, trying to shove past him. He wrapped an around around her front, pulling her body back against his. "Let me go!'

"Shh," he held on tightly, kissing the side of her head in a gesture of comfort. "It'll be okay," he whispered, taking her weight as she broke down again. This time the tears came, and she curled into him as her body was wracked with sobs. Kevin kept a hold of her, whispering his reassurances that the pain she was feeling would fade in time.

"No," she shook her head and pushed away from him. "I don't want it to go away. If it does, then it means I'm forgetting about him. I can't do that, Kevin!"

"Pen, you can't live like this for the rest of your life," he told her evenly. "Eventually you'll have to move on."

She didn't say anything, unwilling to even entertain the thought of a day when she would wake up and not feel like there was a gaping hole in her heart. She turned away from Kevin and made her way to the bathroom. Maybe a hot shower would help clear the murky fog that had settled over her usual chipper personality.

Kevin was gone when she was finished, but she couldn't muster up enough energy to worry about that now. She knew that probably meant something, but she was tired and her headache hadn't completely gone away. She searched around for her bag, but it was nowhere to be found. She must have left it at JJ's when she'd left last night. She went for her keys next, intent on driving over there and checking in with her friend, but they were missing as well. Her car, Esther, was probably still parked at the airport where she'd left it. The events of yesterday seemed so surreal, but she knew she would never forget those moments for the rest of her life.

A knock on her door jolted her out of her thoughts, and she realized with a start that she had been standing completely still in the middle of her living room for almost ten minutes. She checked the peephole quickly, relieved to see JJ and Will standing on the other side. She threw open the door quickly and gathered her friend in a hug.

Somehow Will managed to maneuver them into the main area and close the door behind him. Eventually JJ let her go, and Garcia was not surprised to realize her eyes were watery again. Will had found a seat on the couch with Henry in his arms, and she moved quickly to take her godson.

"How's my little man?" she cooed, her voice holding a note of happiness she didn't quite feel. Henry did what he always did when his godmother held him; he wrapped his chubby little fingers around her hair and tugged. "Still fascinated with blondes, I see." She kept a hold of him even when JJ offered to take him. "Nope," she shook her head, "I need a little PH time right now."

"Well here," JJ slipped the bag off of her shoulder and lifted it slightly before setting it on the coffee table. "You left this last night." She waited a moment as Henry moved his attention from her hair to her glasses, and Penelope leaned away slightly to keep them from the baby's reach. "Where's Kevin?"

"Went home," Garcia said. "He stayed last night and this morning, but he's got work. Besides," she added after a pause, "I can't expect him to hole himself up in here and wallow in misery with me."

"Pen," JJ started, but Garcia shook her head.

"Please don't tell me it'll be okay," she said, cursing silently as her voice hitched with emotion. "I just can't..."

"I know," JJ stepped forward and placed her hand on Garcia's shoulder. Henry held out his arms toward his mother and leaned forward, forcing JJ to catch his weight and shift him to her hip. Garcia let him go in favor of lifting her bag and examining their contents.

"Here you are," she dug her phone out and looked at her guests. "I'm gonna call his mom," she told them, knowing they knew exactly which "him" she was referencing. "I know Hotch has probably already informed her, but I need to talk to her."

"Go ahead, _cher_ ," Will stood and gave her a soft smile. "I'll run out and grab us some lunch. Figured you two need to eat." He left the apartment quietly, and JJ smiled after him.

"He's a keeper, Jayje," Garcia said once he was gone.

"Oh, believe me," she returned with a smile. "I know."

Garcia gave her friend one last reassuring smile before disappearing into her bedroom to make the worst phone call of her life.


	8. Chapter 8

REID

He sometimes wondered about the birds. Not how they flew - that was a simple matter of physics and mathematical equations he'd had figured out by the time he was seven. No, he wondered about their feelings, their thoughts. They flew high overhead, watching the creatures below wandering through their lives with no discernable purpose. Were they aware of interpersonal relationships? Did they understand concepts like family and loss? Did they mourn when one of their own was killed or lost?

His thoughts were wild and disorganized, and he couldn't seem to focus on anything except the birds. When he was a boy, he'd often stared out of his window at the little feathered animals flitting about. When his imagination had been more pronounced and vivid, he'd often pretended he was a bird and that he could fly anywhere he wanted to go.

He had been sitting on the park bench for the better part of the morning. A horrific nightmare had startled him awake at dawn, though he couldn't recall what it had been about. Unable to get back to sleep, he'd started wandering around his neighborhood until he'd come upon a small park tucked back in a grove of trees. Children played on the equipment surveyed by vigilant parents, but Reid barely paid them any attention. His mind bounced around sporadically between his lost teammate, past cases, books he'd read recently, and thoughts about his mom.

They hadn't spoken in a while, and he hesitated calling her. She knew about her teammates - had even met them once - and news of Morgan's death would upset her. Still, he thought she should know and he dug his phone from his pocket before he could talk himself out of it. The line connected on the second ring.

"Yes," he answered the standard greeting of the nurse who'd picked up the phone. "This is Spencer Reid. Is my mom, Diana, available?"

"Of course, Dr. Reid," the nurse replied. "Just a moment." There was a static-filled pause that told him he hadn't been put on hold, and after a few seconds his mom voice filled the silence.

"Spencer?"

"Hi mom," he smiled despite his dark mood. "How are you?"

"What's wrong, Spencer?" Her voice held the tone he knew not to contradict, but he asked anyway.

"What makes you think anything's wrong?"

"A mother knows," she answered cryptically. She'd used the response before, and each time Spencer believed just a little more in mother's intuition.

"Mom," he whispered, hearing his own voice crack with emotion. "It's...it's Morgan. His plane cra-" His throat closed over the word, and he forced himself to swallow and try again. "Crashed," he finished. "He's...he's gone, Mom."

"Oh, Spencer," she cooed, "I'm so sorry, honey."

And just like that, he broke. He hadn't allowed himself to cry in front of his teammates; Morgan had always been the strong one, and with him gone Spencer felt he had to step up somehow. It was what Morgan would have expected from him, he thought. But hearing his mother's quiet sympathy allowed him to experience the full breadth of emotion that he'd managed to bottle up, and he wept. Luckily he was far enough away from any passersby that he didn't attract any attention, but he didn't care. It didn't last long, but when his tears dried he felt just a little better.

"Spencer, are you alright?" She'd waited him out, he realized. She couldn't be there for him physically, but her steadfast presence on the line was more than enough for him.

"Yeah," he managed after a few deep breaths. "Yeah," he repeated. "I'm fine."

"Is there anything I can do for you? For your team?" He wondered if she'd jump on a plane if he asked her to; she hated flying, but he knew there wasn't anything she wouldn't do for him.

"No, Mom," he shook his head even though she couldn't see him. "Just talking to you is what I needed. Thank you."

"Anytime, honey," she told him. "You can call me anytime." There was something in her voice that struck a chord within him. He hadn't called in a while, but that had been mostly his hectic schedule rather than a lack of desire. Worse than that, he thought, his own mother thought he hadn't called because he just didn't need her. He made a promise to himself to be better; Morgan's death proved to them all that life was just too unpredictable.

"I know," he felt bad for not contacting her more frequently, and made the promise out loud. "I'll keep in touch."

"Will there be a funeral?"

"In Chicago," he confirmed. "Mrs. Morgan wants to wait until they're sure."

"Could he have survived?" There was a note of hope in her tone, and Spencer felt worse for his next words.

"I don't think so, Mom. Any survivors would have been found by now." It hurt to even think it, but Reid knew statistically there was little chance Morgan was still alive.

"I can't imagine what's she's going through, the poor woman." She clicked her tongue softly, then said something softly to someone near her. Spencer wasn't sure if there really was someone there, or if his mother's condition was making her think there was. Either way, she sounded agitated. "Listen, Spencer, I have to go. Let me know about the funeral. I'll see if I can get away. A train from here to Chicago shouldn't be too much."

"Mom, you can't travel alone."

"I know," she said with a smile in her voice. "I was hoping my wayward son would come escort me."

He smiled despite himself and even allowed a small chuckle to pass his lips. If she wanted to attend the funeral, he was sure Hotch wouldn't mind him taking a few extra days to see his mother back to Vegas. "I'll see what I can do, Mom. I love you."

"I love you, too, Spencer." And the line disconnected. The world around him refocused as he slid his phone back into his pocket, and when he stood up he felt a little lighter. The sunlight filtered through the treetops and danced across the grassy area around his feet. He held out his hands aimlessly, letting the warmth seep into his skin as he made his way back to his loft.

Above him, the birds sang.


	9. Chapter 9

On Day 1 of a very hectic weekend, I get the update in just under the wire. Apologies for the delay. Also, a few of you have expressed very good questions; I hope this chapter answers some of them.

* * *

ROSSI

Despite having the week off, Rossi was back in the office the next day. He wasn't alone, he noted as he walked across the bullpen to the stairs that would take him to the upper offices. He took the steps slowly, giving his tired muscles the chance to wake up. He knocked softly on the darkly stained door, and Hotch looked up from his files with curious eyes.

"Good morning," Rossi greeted, accepting the silent invitation. He sank down into one of the two chairs positioned on the nearer side of the desk for visitors. They were cushioned with leather and studded with brass, but they weren't terribly comfortable. On his left, the bulletproof windows let in the ever-growing morning light through slanted blinds. The poetic soul in Rossi lamented on another missed sunrise.

"Morning," Hotch returned. "I didn't think anyone else was coming in. I just need to finish up a few reports."

"I left a few notes of my own I needed to grab," Rossi admitted, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards his own office. "You hear from Morgan's mom?"

"She called this morning," Hotch didn't look up from his notes. "She wants to hold off on having a service until the final report from the NTSB is in." Rossi had read the preliminary report that stated a severe thunderstorm had been the catalyst in a series of events that led to engine failure. So far, it looked like a freak accident.

Rossi sat up a little straighter. "I saw the photos, Hotch. The largest piece of the fuselage was smaller than my car."

"I know," this time he did look up, and Rossi saw the pain he was trying to mask under his efficiency. He looked back down quickly when he realized Rossi had seen. "Dan called me just a moment ago. They found a few survivors, but none of them were Morgan. They'll be releasing it to the media after the families have been notified."

"How many?"

"So far, seven," Hotch leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped over his stomach in an imitation of relaxation. "I already called Mrs. Morgan and told her, just in case she heard the news and thought…" It was uncommon for Aaron Hotchner to run out of words, but Rossi knew that this was no ordinary situation.

"Yeah." the older agent nodded, he himself unsure of what to say next. Against his better judgment, he had held onto a small shred of hope deep in his heart that maybe Morgan had survived. He knew the chances were small, and that any likelihood of finding him alive shrank with each passing hour. Now, almost twenty hours after the crash, the search and rescue mission would soon turn to a recovery operation.

"I'm going to send all of our existing case notes over to Strauss," Hotch scribbled something on a notepad and tucked it under his keyboard. "She'll disseminate them to the other teams. JJ put together a list of potential replacements last night, I'd like you to look them over." He handed a folder across the desk without making eye contact. Rossi accepted it, but dropped it back onto the desk as he stood.

"Hotch," he tried. When the other man didn't look up, he tried again. "Aaron."

"Dave," Hotch's voice held a tone of warning, but Rossi heard the notes of grief beneath the calm. Rossi sighed and let it go, knowing there was no getting through to the Unit Chief when he was like this. He'd always been closed off and resolutely stubborn about letting any of his emotions leak out of his carefully constructed facade. Professionalism was more than a policy for Aaron Hotchner; it was a law. Nothing had changed since Rossi had come out of retirement, except that the man who had once seemed so young and eager was a little more worn around the edges.

He lifted the folder from the desk and tapped against his other hand a few times. "Call me if you need anything." Hotch nodded, but didn't lift his gaze from his reports. Rossi closed the door behind him and walked the few steps to his office. He switched on the desk lamp instead of the overhead fluorescents, casting a muted glow around the room. His chair was infinitely more comfortable than the guest chairs in Hotch's office, and he felt his muscles relax as he sank into the plush leather.

The folder in his hand wasn't thick, and he wondered at the type of agents JJ had selected to fill the gaping hole in their team. That task had probably been heart-wrenching for the normally upbeat agent, and Rossi marveled at the emotional upheaval that had been caused by the death of Derek Morgan. Hotch had pulled into himself even more, and Rossi knew it would take a remarkable person to completely replace Morgan in his eyes. JJ and Prentiss seemed to be keeping the team afloat, but their grief had been palpable in the room last night. Reid had lapsed into silence, a feat Rossi hadn't thought possible for the normally eager-to-please genius.

Garcia's grief, however, was on an entirely different level. When he'd first arrived, he'd have bet dollars to doughnuts that she and Morgan were an item. Or, at the very least, on the road to becoming one. He'd been surprised to learn about Lynch, and even more surprised when they seemed to act completely oblivious to what was going on between them. JJ had filled him in on their rather unique relationship, and he'd simply accepted it. Garcia's infectiously chipper personality could often make a crappy day just a little bit better, and she was always happy when she and Morgan flirted shamelessly.

Rossi spared a thought for their devastated tech genius, and he made a mental note to check in on her this afternoon. He wasn't sure if she would want to return to the job after this, but from what he knew about her and the rest of the team he had to try. He wasn't sure they could survive losing Morgan and Garcia both.

With a plan firmly in mind, he flipped the folder open to review the names JJ had compiled. It was a short list - as he knew it would be. Replacing Derek Morgan was nigh impossible, but they might be able to find a bright young mind to challenge them and push them on.

The first was a ten year agency veteran who had been passed over for the BAU two years ago when Prentiss had arrived. He had experience in Homicide, and had been decorated several times for valor in the field. His buzz cut screamed military, and a quick check confirmed his service in the Marine Corps for four years after he graduated high school. He'd used the GI bill to pay for his Bachelor's in Criminal Justice, and he'd gotten another in Psychology during his first few years in the Bureau. On paper, Michael Grayson was an outstanding candidate. But Rossi's gut told him something just wasn't right, and he'd learned a long time ago to trust his gut. He set the paperclipped file aside and looked at the next one.

Rhea Arellano's file was an eerie echo of Morgan's own history. With a background as a street cop in L.A., then a stint in SWAT before transferring to an Anti-Gang Unit in East L.A., Arellano definitely had the capability to handle the worst of humanity they often faced. She'd transferred into the FBI's Organized Crime Unit almost seven years ago after her captain had lent her to the local field office for a federal case involving a local gang. Her performance reviews painted a picture of an intelligent, confident young woman with a penchant for daring tactics and out of the box thinking. She had only two negative comments in her file, both from the same senior agent on the National Gang Task Force, complaining about her problem with accepting authority and insubordination. The complaints stunk of a politically-minded superior whose ego had been hurt by a younger agent, and Rossi dismissed them. He set her file aside for further review and moved on to the next one.

The third candidate was another Bureau veteran, but unlike the first two candidates Gerald Mactensen wasn't a current field agent. After the academy, Mactensen spent the first three years of his service as a technical analyst in the Phoenix field office. He had transferred to Dallas after that, switching from the tech pool to Cyber Crimes. He'd achieved his agent status here, and had earned several commendations from his superiors for his brilliance and ability to get ahead of criminals. A car accident had taken him out of the field two years ago, and he'd spent his time behind the desk earning a degree in Criminal Psychology. He'd stayed on the desk despite passing all of his qualifiers, and it was clear to Rossi his talent was being wasted in Dallas.

He scribbled some notes on each candidate, listing their strengths and weaknesses on a yellow legal pad. When he was finished, he tore the sheet from the stack and set it on top of the pile before switching off his lamp. That was enough work for now, he thought. It was time to check in on his team and take care of his friends. And he knew exactly where he would stop first.


	10. Chapter 10

HOTCH

He stayed well into the evening finishing every possible report that Strauss might ask for. He updated the Unit Chiefs for the other BAU teams and received nothing but total support and offers of further assistance from each of them. Hotch assured them it wasn't necessary, and they would most likely be back by the end of the next week. Rossi had reviewed the candidates and scribbled his thoughts in the file before grabbing his things and darting out the door. All that was left was for him to make the choice.

He packed the file in his briefcase and decided to do that tomorrow. It was late, and the toll of the last couple of days was finally hitting him. He switched off his desk lamp and stood, stretching his cramped muscles. In his pocket, his phone vibrated and a short ring filled the silence. He checked the number before answering.

"Hotchner."

"Hotch, it's Dan." The NTSB Chief didn't sound like himself, though Hotch couldn't blame him. Sifting through that kind of horror was bound to take its toll.

"Dan, I appreciate you calling with updates." Hotch remembered the call he'd placed to Fran Morgan earlier that morning. She'd been understandably upset when he'd told her that they'd found a handful of survivors, but none of them were her son. "It means a lot to me, and to my team."

"Well, I've got another one for you," he sounded tired. "I waited to call you before we were sure, but there's been a change in the case." He paused for a moment before taking an audible breath. "Hotch, we think someone crashed this plane intentionally."

Hotch sat back down, all traces of exhaustion evaporating instantly. His mind immediately shot back to the phone call he'd received yesterday and the woman who had insisted the very same thing. Should he have paid more attention to her? Taken her more seriously? Could he have made a grave mistake by dismissing her words as grief?

"Hotch?"

"Sorry," the agent shook his head. "Was it hijacked? Could it be another Flight 93?"

"We don't think so," Hotch heard the rustle of papers on the other end as Dan sifted through his notes. "Nothing in the logs indicate a hijacking - no pilot communication, no frantic phone calls from passengers, nothing. This is something I've never seen before."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, it means this investigation just got about a hundred times more difficult. It also means we have to coordinate with even more federal agencies." His intent was clear, but Hotch was already a step ahead.

"You think someone on the plane was the target." It wasn't a question; there were very few reasons to intentionally crash a plane. If it wasn't a hijacking, then the only reason to take one down in a sparsely populated area was to kill a passenger without causing too much collateral damage.

"I was hoping you and your team could come down here and figure out which one of these poor souls was worth crashing a plane for. And maybe find the sick son of a bitch who killed 108 people in the process." He sounded almost ashamed for having to ask, but Hotch knew that was probably because of Morgan. Having his team investigate this would be ethically irresponsible; he also knew once they knew the details there would be no stopping them. He thought back a few years to when Garcia had been shot, and how the entire team had rallied to catch the man before he could finish the job. Hotch himself had cleared their caseload, even being so bold as to refuse other cases until Garcia's attacker had been caught. He'd taken some heat from Strauss for that, and he knew he'd take even more for this. But there was no doubting the answer to Heffield's request.

"Give me a few hours to get the team together. I'll call you when we're leaving."

He called Chief Strauss first, dialing her cell and praying she hadn't gone to bed yet. She picked up on the third ring sounding alert but relaxed.

"Strauss." Hotch could hear voices in the background, and sighed inwardly.

"Ma'am, I apologize for calling so late. Details have come to my attention and I wanted to check in with you immediately."

"Is this about the crash?" The background noise disappeared, and he guessed she'd excused herself from her friends. Her voice had also lilted just a bit, and Hotch could hear the faint note of sympathy in her voice.

"Yes ma'am. I've been in contact with Colonel Dan Heffield at the NTSB to keep updated on the investigation. He's come across evidence that suggests the plane was crashed intentionally." He waited then, knowing the next words out of her mouth would either make or break his team's morale.

"Has he requested assistance?" She sounded wary, like she knew it was a bad idea but also knew there wasn't anything this team wouldn't do for one of their own.

"He has." He swallowed, then offered information that could damn him. "I should also tell you that I received a phone call yesterday from a young woman claiming that the plane had been crashed on purpose. At the time, I'd dismissed it as a loved one needing an outlet for her grief, but in light of this new information..."

"I would have made the same conclusion, Agent Hotchner," she dismissed his self-reprimand and paused, mulling over her decision. "In your opinion, will your team be of any assistance in this investigation? Are they too emotionally invested?"

"In my opinion, that will only make them better in this case." He knew he'd have to fight for this one, but there was no way he was letting this go.

"What if their personal attachment gets in the way? Can they be objective in this case?" She sounded worried, and he knew she was only asking the same questions any good supervisor would. They had to be so careful when they involved themselves in any case; personal involvement could skew observations and distort perceptions.

"With all due respect, ma'am, I think it would be inadvisable to let another team work on this case. If this plane was crashed intentionally, then that means someone on that plane was a target. Investigators will need to pinpoint which one, as well as motive, means, and suspects. And with respect to the other teams, there isn't a better group of individuals suited to the task. Or one more motivated."

"Very well," she consented, albeit reluctantly. "Gather your team and brief them. Will you be leaving tonight?"

"As soon as possible," he confirmed. "Thank you."

"You can thank me by finding the person responsible. I may have not always agreed with his methods, but Morgan was one of ours, Aaron. If your team can do this, then maybe we can all make a bit of sense from his death." She bid him goodnight after one more reminder to keep her updated. Hotch keyed his phone off and settled back down in his chair.

So much for going home tonight.


	11. Chapter 11

And we're back with Garcia. Everything from here out will be consecutive again. The response from everyone is a bit overwhelming! Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review. I appreciate each and every one of you.

* * *

GARCIA

The phone call with Fran Morgan had been full of tears. Garcia had learned about the survivors, and they'd cried together at the injustice of it all. Still, Garcia couldn't help but feel a bit better than there were families out there who were probably at this moment receiving the best possible news. Fran had listened to her words and praised her ability to see a light even in the darkest of times. "Derek always said he loved that about you," she'd told the younger woman, and Garcia's tears came anew.

For just a moment, Penelope remembered what is was like to have a mother, someone to listen and give comfort and advice. They'd only met once, briefly, but Derek had talked so much about his mother that Penelope felt like she knew the woman so well. And, from talking to Fran for almost half an hour, the feeling was mutual.

After a final confirmation that she'd call the next day, Penelope hung up the phone and went to wash her face. Her reflection in the mirror startled her, and she took a few moments to make herself just a little more presentable.

Will had returned with food - burgers from a local drive thru - and he and JJ were sitting at her table trying to coax Henry into eating a french fry.

"Let me," she said as she took a seat next to JJ and took the boy from her lap. Once Henry was settled, she snagged a fry and made sure he saw her take a bite. She finished it with a delighted _yum_ sound, then grabbed another. Henry's tiny fingers reached for her hand, and with her help he guided the fry into his mouth.

They sat like that for the remainder of the meal, Penelope eating most of her burger and occasionally losing a fry to the baby in her lap. JJ and Will talked about the things first time parents do - chasing him around as he crawled everywhere, attempts at words and sounds, new experiences that they had been totally unprepared for. Penelope listened to it all, soaking up the feeling of family.

Once the meal was done they relocated to the couch. JJ pulled out a few toys for Henry as Penelope dug out an old Disney movie from her stash. It was something of a guilty pleasure for her, but she couldn't help it. There was something about the promise of a happy ending that appealed to her; a fantasy that contradicted her everyday reality in a way that satisfied her inner child.

Will stepped out to run a few errands while he could do so kid-free, and JJ seemed content to sit with her and watch animated movies as Henry played at their feet. Finally, around two, he stopped playing and started to work his way toward his mother. He managed to pull himself up to standing using her pants leg, and JJ helped him the rest of the way into her arms. He yawned widely and settled down, his eyes drooping closed almost immediately.

"Wow," Penelope whispered. "Is it always that easy?"

"Oh no," JJ spoke in a hushed tone. "Usually I have to fight with him to take a nap. Must be your presence."

"Glad to be of service," she smiled, feeling just a bit of her old spark returning. It was the first sign that told her she might eventually be okay, and she reached out to wrap an arm around her friend's shoulder. "Thank you so much for being here today," she said. "I'm not sure what I would do without you."

"Well, good thing you'll never have to find out," JJ returned.

"Don't say that." And just like that, her mood soured. "You can't promise that."

"No, I can't," JJ agreed sadly, shifting her sleeping son to angle her body toward Garcia. "But we can't live life scared just because something might happen. I'm your friend, and I will always be here for you."

Tears sprung to her eyes, and Penelope shied away. She had cried so much in the past twenty four hours, and she knew she'd probably cry some more before it all returned to something resembling normal. Her friends had been an amazing support system for her, but she couldn't lean on them forever.

"Jayje, you don't have to stay," she said finally. "I'm gonna go lay down. When Will comes back, you should go. It's not that I don't completely appreciate everything you've done," she hurried on when the other woman opened her mouth to protest, "but I don't want you to feel like you have to sit here with me all day."

"Alright," JJ agreed reluctantly, knowing her friend needed time alone to process everything. "You call if you need anything," she pressed. "I don't care what time it is, or how insignificant you might think it is."

"Sure," Penelope gave her friend a muted smile. "Thanks for today."

"Of course." JJ returned her smile, and Penelope could feel her friend's gaze on her back as she retreated into her room. The beaded curtain wasn't much of a barrier, but she didn't really want to be cut off from the world either. She laid down in her bed and tried to sleep, but the best she could manage was a light doze. She heard when Will returned, and the hushed conversation he had with JJ. They left quietly, casting the apartment into an eerie silence as the door closed behind them.

She tried for a few more minutes, but every time she closed her eyes she relived that horrible moment of discovery all over again. Finally giving in, she got up and got dressed - a well worn pair of black slacks and a simple blouse. It wasn't her usual vibrant color scheme, but it was comfortable. She'd just turned on her laptop when her a knock echoed in the quiet apartment.

"Hey," Rossi greeted her when she opened the door. At his feet, a dark four-legged shape wiggled with excitement upon seeing her. A pang of grief hit Penelope all over again; with the chaos of the previous day, she'd completely forgotten about Clooney. She'd dropped him back at Morgan's before work yesterday knowing Derek would go straight home after his flight.

"Hey," she greeted them both, but dropped to her knee to wrap the overgrown puppy in a bear hug. Clooney licked her ear and wriggled in her arms, dashing past her and up onto her couch the moment she released him. She stepped back to let Rossi and shut the door behind him.

"How did you get him?"

"Neighbor had a key," he revealed. "I remember you saying that Clooney had been sad to go back home yesterday morning, so I figured he was still there." He looked around at the darkened apartment, then back at her. "How are you?"

"I'm alright," she told him. "I'm still kind of processing everything right now." She loved her friends more than anything in the world, but she was starting to feel a little stifled. "JJ and Will just left about an hour ago." She turned away from him and started back toward the kitchen. Stifled or not, her momma had instill manners in her at an early age. "Can I get you something? A drink?"

"Penelope," his soft voice held enough concern that she stopped in her tracks. He caught up to her and gently wrapped his fingers around her arm. "You spend every waking moment making sure we're alright, keeping our spirits up. You provide a beacon of light in this darkness that surrounds us. You take such good care of us. For once, let us return the favor."

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes shining with tears. Then, in a small voice, she gave in. "Okay." She changed direction and sank down onto the couch where Clooney had stretched out. He adjusted to lay his head in her lap, and her hand began scratching behind his ears absently. Rossi returned from the kitchen with two glasses of water, and she offered him a small smile as she took one.

"He seems to love you," Rossi settled in an old armchair near the window. Penelope nodded and glanced down at the mutt. His pointed ears and dark eyes spoke of a German Shepherd ancestry, but his mottled fur and longer coat told another story. He was officially listed as a "Shepherd Mix"on the vet forms, though Penelope had guessed he was more Australian than German.

"Yeah," she adjusted slightly as Clooney shifted, turning to stretch out on his side as her ministrations moved to his side. "I watch him whenever you guys go out. He gets lonely."

"How old is he?" Rossi sipped his drink as though his glass held something other than water, but Penelope knew better. She didn't have any alcohol in the house.

"You know, I'm not sure. Derek found him as a puppy wandering around the park where he usually jogs... _jogged_." Her breath hitched, but she shoved past the wave of sadness and focused on the happy story. "He took him to the vet, and she guessed he was eight to ten weeks old. He tried to find the owner, but no one claimed him. That was...oh probably 6 years ago now." Clooney huffed contentedly in her lap, and as her fingers stilled on his fur he whined low in his throat.

"Well he certainly loves attention," Rossi laughed.

"He just knows he can get away with anything here," Garcia admitted. "Derek never lets him on the furniture at his apartment. But I can't say no to those eyes."

"Well, at least I know he's in good hands." Rossi stood and tilted his head slightly, as though he wanted to say something more. Instead, he settled on, "I just wanted to make sure he was taken care of." Penelope wasn't fooled by his aloof demeanor, and she looked up at him with a grateful smile.

"He is, thank you." Rossi deposited his glass in the kitchen and bid her goodbye before leaving her alone again. Clooney let out a long breath and licked her hand lazily as she watched the door close. Her gaze shifted down to the pup in her lap and felt some of the broken pieces of her heart start to knit themselves back together. Derek was gone, but she knew she would always have a part of him with her. For now, that was enough.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor. Any medical errors are my own. I did as much research as I could, but mistakes are sometimes unavoidable. Please suspend disbelief insomuch as is possible, but please let me know of any glaring errors. I will attempt to fix what I can.

* * *

JOHN DOE

"Sir?" The voice cut through the thick fog that had muddled his brain, and he slowly blinked his eyes open. A woman's face filled his vision, and he took a few more seconds to wake fully as she checked his vitals. "Here," she said, stepping on a small pedal to lift the top half of his bed. Once he was in a sitting position, she walked around to his right side and checked a few tubes.

He tried to ask what had happened, but his throat refused to work. He coughed dryly, and the woman gave him a sympathetic smile. He tried to swallow a few times, but his throat still felt like it was on fire.

"Take it easy, sugar," she warned him. "You've been through some kind of hell and you're still recovering." He shifted uncomfortably in his bed, gasping when a stab of pain lanced through him. "Broken ribs," she affirmed. "Try not to move too much." She took a few more readings, then began jotting things down.

"What happened?" he managed to croak.

"I was hoping you could tell us, hon. A couple of campers brought you in early this morning." She pressed a button on the wall beside him, but nothing happened. He clenched his teeth in pain as his arm throbbed, and she made more notes. He tried to push past the pain, tried to think about how he'd gotten here, but he could only shake his head.

"It's alright," she fastened the pen back to the clipboard and laid her free hand on his shoulder. "Let's start with something simple. What's your name? You didn't have any identification on you when you came in."

He opened his mouth to give her an answer, to utter the name he must have said thousands of times, but nothing came out. He tried again, but his mind refused to work. He began to panic and the monitor next to him began beeping rapidly.

"I need you to calm down," she spoke in even tones as the door opened and an older man entered. "Take deep breaths, in and out, just like me," she prompted. "Come on, honey." The man came to his other side, checking readouts and furrowing his brow in concern.

"He shouldn't be awake yet," he admonished, and the woman shrugged and handed him the clipboard.

"He started to wake up a few minutes ago. I checked his chart; he hasn't missed or been given the wrong dosage." She waited a few more moments until her patient had calmed down. "That's it, honey. Good. It's alright," she told him, "you've been through significant trauma. Between that and the medication we're giving you, it's not uncommon for the mind to be a bit sluggish. Just give it a minute."

The doctor looked up sharply from the chart, but didn't comment. Instead, he said, "I'll talk to Dr. Cormick about managing his medication. He might be having a reaction to the cocktail." He scribbled on the paper for a second then handed it back to the nurse. "Floor conference in five."

She nodded and waited until he was out the door before turning her attention back to the patient. "Just close your eyes and rest," she told him. "The best thing for you is to sleep. If you need anything, just press this button here," she indicated the call button next to the bed. "I'm Maggy, by the way."

He registered about half of what she was saying, too preoccupied by the fact that he couldn't remember his own name. He didn't know where he was, or even what had happened to him. He barely noticed when she left him alone, the beeping of his heart monitor the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

He spent the next two hours trying to piece together anything at all. He kept getting fragments of time, voices that didn't make sense, but each time he tried to focus on one his head would scream in pain and he had to take calm, steadying breaths to get his heart rate under control again.

 _"...please, just let it be over..."_

 _"...I've got you. I'm not letting go..."_

 _"...I don't want to die..."_

What the hell had happened to him? A car accident? An attack? A bomb? Whatever it was, it had been traumatic enough to erase not only the event itself, but everything else as well.

Changing tack, he tried to think about himself - about his life before, even just faces or names. Several images flashed across his mind's eye, but he couldn't put a name to any of the faces. A man in a three piece suit with close cropped brown hair. A young, mocha-skinned woman with sharp features and a stern expression. A bespectacled blonde with a teasing smile. Other faces young and old, some friendly and some not, came and went.

By the time the door to his room opened again, his head was throbbing in time with his arm. The doctor from before entered, frowning slightly as he saw his patient awake.

"Good afternoon," he closed the door and moved over with easy strides. "I'm Doctor Stevens, one of your attending physicians. How are you feeling?"

"Arm hurts," his whisper was rough and raw, and Doctor Stevens winced sympathetically.

"We had to intubate you when you first arrived. You lost a lot of blood, and you stopped breathing on your own. Right before you woke up, you starting choking so we removed the tube. Do you remember any of that?" The man paused for a moment, then shook his head. "That's alright," he smiled flatly. "Often when we see this type of severe injury, the brain has troubled recording new memories. I'm bringing in a specialist to talk to you, to see if we can't jump start that brain of yours. In the meantime, I'm here to check on your physical injuries."

"How bad?" He'd managed to swallow a few times, and speaking this time wasn't nearly as painful.

"Other than the head injury, you have three broken ribs on your right side," he said. "It appears that your right arm was outstretched when they were broken. One of them had punctured your lung, but we managed to get it inflated again. Your left arm was dislocated at the shoulder from what appears to be an acute impact. There were leaves and dirt in your clothes, so we deduced that you had fallen as you walked through the woods."

The sound of the leaves crunching beneath his body filled his ears, and he nodded slowly. "I fell," he said.

"Do you remember that?"

"I remember the sound of the leaves," he answered slowly.

"That's good," Stevens made a note on the clipboard. "Any other sounds you remember?"

"Just..." he shook his head and turned his gaze out the window. "I hear voices."

"What are they telling you?" Doctor Stevens was making more notes, and the man knew he sounded more than a little crazy.

"Nothing," he replied. "I think...I think they're from the accident."

"Accident?"

"I remember..." he screwed his eyes tight and clenched his teeth as a wave of pain engulfed him.

"Okay," Doctor Stevens placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently. "That's good enough for now. You did great. I really think you should rest now. This type of post-traumatic amnesia usually clears up on its own, depending on the severity of the injury. You didn't lose consciousness for an extended period of time, and you don't seem to have lost any discernable cognitive function. I'll confer with our specialist, but I believe your mind is still trying to sort through whatever trauma you experienced."

"But I'll get my memories back?"

"I can't say right now," Stevens skirted around an outright yes, but he sounded optimistic. "Like I said, the best thing for you right now is rest."

"Thank you," the man offered the best grateful smile he could muster. Doctor Stevens patted him on the shoulder one last time before leaving him alone with his thoughts. It wasn't long until exhaustion crept up on him, and he slept.


	13. Chapter 13

PRENTISS

She had just curled up with a good book and a glass of wine when the sharp trill of her cell pierced the silence. Sergio purred in her lap, but his hum turned to a pitiful meow as she stretched to reach the phone.

"Hello?"

"Agent Prentiss, it's Agent Hotchner."

She stifled a small huff of laughter at his all-business tone even now. The man was seriously unflappable. "Is everything alright?"

"Not really," he said honestly. "How soon can you come in?"

"I thought Chief Strauss ordered us all to take a week. Are you still at the office?" She knew he took a lot onto his own shoulders, but everyone had their limits. She wondered if he was nearing his yet.

"Something's come up," he answered. "How soon?"

"Thirty minutes?" she guessed looking down at her sweatpants and faded t-shirt. She'd spent the day cleaning her flat in an attempt to keep her thoughts off of her lost friend. She'd just finished with a shower and a quick dinner when he'd called. Still, as an agent she was ready at a moment's notice to drop everything and go out on a case. Thirty minutes was pushing it, but anything more was unacceptable in her eyes.

"Good. See you then." He hung up without another word and she shook her head. Aaron Hotchner took the word workaholic to a whole new level, and she suspected that Morgan's death had only pushed him further into his work. She made a mental note to talk to Rossi about it; the older agent had a solid friendship with their leader and would be the best candidate to get him to take a break and deal with all of this.

Ten minutes later she was locking her front door and taking the stairs down to the lobby. She normally took the Metro, but she didn't have the luxury of waiting for the train. She dug her car keys from her purse and crossed the street to the small parking garage reserved for residents.

The drive from her apartment to Quantico normally took twenty minutes, but it was late in the evening and there was relatively little traffic on the roads. By the time she was pinning her badge to her jacket, she had five minutes to spare.

"Thank you for coming in on short notice," Hotch beckoned her into the conference room where Rossi and JJ were waiting.

"What's going on?" She took her usual seat on the right side of the room and tried to ignore the pang of sadness that hit her when she glanced at Morgan's empty chair.

"I'd rather go over it just once," he said. "Reid is on his way in."

"Garcia?"

He hesitated a moment, and Prentiss sat up a little straighter. "I didn't want to involve her just yet," he admitted. "It will only add to her stress, and right now she doesn't need that."

"She's gonna be pissed when she finds out you excluded her," Prentiss replied.

"It's better for her this way," he said firmly. "There's nothing she can do right now. As soon as that changes, I will call her." He turned as Reid walked in, and the conversation was over. Prentiss looked at JJ for help, but the blonde seemed just as confused as she was. Reid settled down in his chair and Hotch began.

"Thank you all for coming in. I know it's a difficult time right now, and I wouldn't have called you if it wasn't important." He looked at all of them in turn, then took another breath. "I've been in contact with Dan Heffield with the National Transportation and Safety Board."

"Are they investigating the crash?" Reid asked.

"Yes," Hotch affirmed. "I asked him to keep me apprised of any changes in the investigation. Some of you might know, but they found a few survivors." At the hopeful glances of his colleagues, he shook his head sadly. "None of them were Morgan," he told them solemnly. "This afternoon he called me with more findings."

"Something tells me we're not going to like this." Rossi tried to lighten the dark mood that had settled over the team, but no one so much as cracked a smile.

"He says the plane was crashed on purpose." A hush fell over them as they absorbed the information, and Prentiss' thoughts immediately flashed back to a cool New York morning. She hadn't been in the city during the attack, but there wasn't an American who'd been alive that day who hadn't been affected by it. Once her thoughts caught back up with her, she dug in her pocket for her phone.

"Who are you calling?" Hotch asked as she stood.

"Garcia," she returned sharply. "She should have been here for this, Hotch."

"We don't know all the facts," he held up a hand to stall her. "They've asked for our help identifying the person responsible." He glanced over his shoulder at Rossi and JJ, and Prentiss didn't miss the look that passed between them. She shoved her phone back into her pocket and focused on it.

"What was that?"

"There's something else," Hotch said slowly. "Yesterday I received a phone call from a woman who claimed the plane crash hadn't been an accident."

"And you dismissed her?" Prentiss knew she shouldn't be raising her voice, especially at her boss, but her emotions were all over the map right now. If he took offense, Hotch didn't show it.

"I can't open an official line of inquiry without evidence, you know that. Now we have some, and I intend to pursue the lead."

"Strauss okayed this?" Rossi sounded surprised, and Prentiss couldn't blame him. The Department Chief lived by the book, and being involved in the investigation of a teammate's death was a definite no-no.

"Yes," Hotch nodded, "but we couldn't authorize the jet. We'll have to drive to West Virginia first thing in the morning." It was a dismissal, and Reid jumped up from his seat and made for the door. Rossi and JJ followed eagerly, but Prentiss held back. When they were alone, she turned to their team leader.

"You have to tell her," she said. "We can't go without her."

"I'm not sure how much help she can be." She could see how deeply he was affected by this, but his first thoughts were always of his team. "And it might make things worse for her."

"When you got the news, you didn't hesitate. You knew you had to be there doing everything possible to help find this guy. I'd even lay money that you had to fight Strauss on this one." His expression said it all. "You can't think she wouldn't want to be right there with us."

"We'll have to visit the scene," he argued, though she could hear in his tone that he was slowly giving in.

"She doesn't," Prentiss countered, "but she needs us right now. Sitting here all alone will be worse."

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded sharply. "Alright," he acquiesced. "I'll call her. Go get your stuff ready."

"Thank you," Prentiss reached out and squeezed his arm gratefully before leaving him alone in the conference room. The last thing she heard before the door shut behind her was the soft tone of his keypad as he dialed Garcia's number.


	14. Chapter 14

DISCLAIMER: I have no idea how to crash a plane. Most of this is conjecture based on my limited knowledge of flying. If anything is glaringly inaccurate, please let me know so I can correct it. Otherwise, please forgive me.

* * *

JJ

They ended up in two Suburbans when Garcia refused to leave Clooney behind. As Prentiss had predicted, the technical analyst had been beyond angry when Hotch had told her everything. It was the first time JJ could remember that Penelope had ever yelled at their boss, and she still hadn't apologized. In the ensuing aftermath, Clooney's presence had been non-negotiable.

She checked the side mirror from the passenger seat, barely able to make out Reid's lanky frame in the car behind them. Next to her, Hotch divided his attention between the road and the latest report that Rossi was reading from his PDA.

"Preliminary reports say one of the wings was structurally compromised when the storm hit, sending the plane into a dive. But they found something interesting in the cockpit."

"What's that?" JJ twisted in her seat.

"The throttle level was pushed all the way forward." Rossi looked up in alarm.

"Couldn't the crash have done that?" Hotch asked.

"They don't think so," Rossi glanced down. "The investigators are pretty certain it was like that at the moment of impact."

"So what," JJ interjected, "one of the pilots crashed the plane?"

"Or both," Hotch glanced over briefly. "It would be difficult to obtain control of the aircraft if one of them wasn't in on it."

Rossi keyed his PDA off and set it on the seat beside him. "What could make two veteran pilots crash a plane full of people? Money?"

"We'll have to check into their financials when we arrive," Hotch was already planning their first few steps. "I've already coordinated with the local office and the sheriff's office. We'll send Prentiss, Reid, and Garcia to the station to get set up. I've already contacted Stephanie Wilkers, the woman who called me yesterday. She's going to video conference with them at the station. We'll head straight to the crash site."

JJ took a steadying breath and focused her gaze out her window. The highway was lined with trees on either side, and the four lane road was sparsely populated this far from a major city. The drive from Quantico to Charleston was over five hours, but it seemed to be passing quickly. JJ's thoughts drifted to her team and the horrific images she was about to witness. The photos had been bad enough, but to see the devastation in person...she didn't know how she was going to handle it.

"You alright?" Hotch's soft question cut through her thoughts, and she shook her head.

"Yeah," she lied, "I'm fine." Even with his focus on the road, she could see the half-glare he was trying to level at her. She smiled reassuringly and sighed. "Have you ever been to a crash site?"

"Once," Hotch answered. "It's where Colonel Heffield and I met. It was...harrowing."

JJ laughed at his description, knowing it was probably much worse than that. "Any advice?"

"Don't eat right before you go," he said immediately. "Trust me." His tone spoke of a story, and she returned his flat smile.

"I've seen pictures of plane crashes before," she said quietly. "I remember thinking about all of the families who would never see their loved ones again. I wondered how they could recover from something like that. Now I guess I'll get my answer."

"It won't be easy," Hotch sighed. "We just...take it one day at a time. Be there for each other, no matter how upset we are."

This time, JJ's smile was less forced. "How mad _was_ Garcia?"

"Mad," Hotch grimaced. "I don't think I've ever heard her quite that angry, and we were all there for the ambulance aftermath in New York."

"She did tear into him, didn't she?" JJ laughed.

"He tried to calm her down, but she just kept poking him in the chest and yelling. And he just kept apologizing." Hotch started chuckling with her, and they dissolved into tearful laughter as Rossi sat up a little straighter in his seat.

"You need me to drive?" He asked lightly.

"No," Hotch took a hand off of the wheel to wipe his eyes clear. "No, I'm good." They all lapsed into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the soft rush of the road beneath their tires. The next few days were going to be long and heart-breaking, and JJ spent the last few miles preparing for what was ahead.


	15. Chapter 15

REID

The sheriff's office in Spencer, West Virginia was small, but by no means the worst condition they'd ever worked in. It was also less than thirty miles from the crash site and was serving as a hub for the investigation. The major bureaus involved had on-site command centers, but the BAU would be connected to their network just as soon as Garcia set up all of her equipment.

"I still can't believe this is happening," a deputy told him as he helped them carry their bags into the conference room. "Nothing like this has ever happened here."

Reid set his messenger bag down and cleared his throat. "Last year in North America there were only seven recorded airplane crashes on airliners with more than 18 passengers. Of those, only three had casualties greater than 100 people and none of those were due to equipment failure. Statistically speaking, nothing like this has happened anywhere. In fact, the odds of actually dying in a plane crash versus other modes of transportation -"

"Reid," Prentiss hissed at him, and he glanced over. Garcia wasn't looking at him, but he could see the flush in her cheeks and the tips of her ears that indicated she was experiencing a rush of emotion. He fell silent and ducked his head, making a mental note to apologize for his insensitivity later.

"Right," the deputy nodded absently the way most people did whenever he started spouting facts. "If you need anything else, just let us know."

"Thank you, we will." Prentiss took over seamlessly, leaving Reid to set up the timeline as Garcia began to hook up all of the monitors and devices she would need.

He was barely aware of Prentiss checking in with Hotch as he constructed what they knew of the timeline. It was a dishearteningly small amount of data, and by the time Prentiss was saying goodbye he had finished penning the time of the last pilot transmission on the board.

"The pilot sent his last transmission at 11:34, but the towers didn't lose contact with Flight 1214 until thirty two minutes later."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm not sure," Reid tapped his chin with the end of the marker. "Is there a requirement for pilots to check in at certain intervals?"

"I can ask Hotch," Prentiss gave him in lieu of an answer. "He can ask his contact at the NTSB and see if there are any procedures the pilots missed."

"You think the pilots sabotaged the plane? Crashed it on purpose?" It was a theory that made sense, but there were still a lot of elements missing.

"I don't know," Prentiss kept her voice low, gesturing for him to do the same. "Hotch and Rossi are working that angle. If only one of them was bought, it would be awfully hard to subdue the other without alerting anyone."

"We need more information," he said.

"Garcia's going to call Ms. Wilkers when she's set up. Hopefully she can give us more about her fiance."

Reid furrowed his brow in thought. "Are we sure the fiance is the target?"

Prentiss shrugged and shook her head. "It's all we have to go on, so for now we work it like that. Once we know more about the intended target, we can start profiling the unsub." They both looked back at Garcia who was alternating between connecting cords and patting Clooney on the head.

"Almost done," she called without looking back. "I'm fine," she added, "stop staring."

"We weren't staring," Reid tried not to sound too defensive. "There's just...nothing else to do."

Garcia looked up then, a ghost of her formerly bright smile twitching at her lips. "Then make yourself useful, Boy Wonder, and go find me a power strip."

Prentiss' laugh followed him as he hurried out the door, not eager to have the tech upset at him. He shivered as he remembered her furious stare down with Hotch; Reid wasn't too keen on a repeat performance.

By the time he returned with the requested item, Prentiss was sitting in front of a screen that showed a young woman with caramel colored skin and dark eyes that were puffy from crying. He passed the power strip to Garcia and settled into a chair well out of range of the camera. He grabbed a notepad and a pen ready to copy down anything that jumped out at him. It was a technique Gideon had taught him - sometimes writing down random thoughts and words sparked something in his mind that helped him connect the pieces.

"I understand how difficult this is for you," Prentiss was saying, "but any detail, no matter how small may be important. What specifically makes you think that Gerald was murdered?"

"He called me before he left," Stephanie replied quietly. Reid couldn't see her face anymore, but he could hear the emotion she was trying to suppress. "He told me to leave the house and check into a hotel. He said don't ask questions, and that he would find me after he landed."

"Did he tell you if someone had threatened him?"

"No," the woman said, "but he sounded off. Nervous, agitated. That wasn't like him. He's normally so calm." Reid wrote down the fiance's name, then wrote _paranoid_ next to it.

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Gerald?" Prentiss spoke evenly and calmly, hoping to keep the interview on track.

"No," she relied emphatically, "Gerald would never hurt anyone! He's a vegetarian because he can't stand the thought of an animal being slaughtered."

Okay," Prentiss made a note, "did either of you receive any threats? Notes that didn't make sense? Voicemails or texts?"

"I didn't. Gerry never got any personally, but his company did."

"His company?" Prentiss looked at her notes. "SanTech Industries?"

"Yes. He's a biochemical engineer. He manufactures pharmaceutical drugs. There are always people outside his work picketing." Reid scribbled the name of the company down and looked over at Garcia with a nod. She turned to her computers and began searching.

Prentiss moved on to the next line of inquiry. "Can you walk me through a typical day for your fiance?"

"He, um, usually left for work around 8:30," the woman said. "He never told me exactly what he was working on, but he always said it would change the world. All he ever wanted to do was help people." She choked back a sob and Prentiss waited patiently for her emotions to subside before pressing forward.

"Did he ever talk about anyone at work that he didn't get along with?"

"No," Stephanie shook her head, "everyone loved him. His boss even gave him a special award for his contribution to the company." Reid wrote down _over-achiever_ and _highly_ _intelligent_ next to Gerald's name, his mind already correlating the traits as they continued the interview.

"I want you to think very hard," Prentiss prompted. "Can you remember if Gerald ever received threats of any kind?" Reid listened carefully to the answer. He knew Prentiss had purposefully asked the question again, hoping to jog Stephanie's already overwhelmed memory.

"No," Stephanie sounded so sure for a moment, then her tone changed. "Wait," she amended, "about three months ago, Gerry went to a conference in Seattle. One night on the phone I noticed he sounded agitated. When I asked him about it, he mentioned something about ignorant zealots, but he wasn't very specific. He always said his kind of work was cutting edge, and that some people opposed it. He didn't come out and say it, but I had a feeling something had happened."

"And he never told you what kind of work he did? You never asked?" Prentiss glanced over at Reid as she spoke, but her eyes darted back to the screen immediately. He wrote down _secretive_ and _possibly unethical._ It wasn't likely, but Reid had learned to never cut off a line of inquiry unless it was certain.

"No," Stephanie's voice was quieter.

"Alright," Prentiss changed tack, "what about his private life? Any enemies? Friends?"

"No, Gerry doesn't have many friends outside of work. He usually just hangs out with my friends or we stay in." Reid scribbled down _loner_. The picture that was building in his mind depicted a perfect target for corporate assassination; a high level worker with little to no friends and family, someone whose loss would impact the company but leave little in the way of grieving survivors looking for retribution.

"Alright," Prentiss sat back in the chair. "You've been a great help, Stephanie. I just want to say how sorry I am for your loss."

"I'm flying out in the morning. Do you know when they will release him? I need to bring him home." _For burial_ , went unsaid. Prentiss looked up at Reid, but he didn't know either. As far as he knew Gerald's body hadn't even been found yet.

"I will find out and let you know when you arrive," she promised. The image winked out, leaving the three of them in silence. Reid sat back in his chair and glanced at their timeline. There was still a lot of information missing, and he hoped the other team could fill in the blank spaces when they returned from the crash site.


	16. Chapter 16

We've broken the 100 review mark. I'd like to take a moment to thank all of you for your continued support. Your words of encouragement and criticism are appreciated in my endeavor to craft meaningful and realistic stories. I could not - and simply _would not_ \- do this without you. So thank you again.

* * *

ROSSI

It was worse than he'd imagined. Wreckage was spilled out over the clearing, and little flags marked gruesome scenes as workers tiptoed through the debris. Next to him, he heard JJ stifle a gasp. She schooled her features quickly, but it didn't matter. The horrific tableau would forever be imprinted on all of their memories. Off to either side of the crash site two large tents had been erected, and people were streaming in and out of the right ones faster than Rossi could keep track.

"JJ and I will check in with Colonel Heffield," Hotch was saying. "Dave, you go find someone with a seat manifest and find out where Gerald Rinks was sitting."

He nodded once as they approached the tents, splitting from his teammates to enter the smaller of the two. Two folding tables took up one whole side, and on one of them he found three pieces of paper taped down detailing the passengers listed in each seat.

"Can I help you?" A woman's voice interrupted his search, and he turned with his badge in hand.

"Dave Rossi, FBI. Colonel Heffield called us in to help with the investigation."

"FBI?" she furrowed her brow, "isn't this sort of out of your expertise?"

"More than sort of," Rossi returned with a humorless smile. "We're here because of the latest findings. The Colonel reported someone had crashed the plane on purpose. We're here to find out why. And, hopefully, who."

"No one's called to claim responsibility," the woman frowned. "Isn't that the usual progression?"

"It depends on the reason," Rossi turned back to the lists behind him. "We're looking for a specific passenger. Gerald Rinks?"

The woman checked her clipboard, flipping pages up and down before stopping. "Gerald Rinks, Seat 5A."

"First Class," Rossi noted.

"Is that important?" she asked.

"Maybe," he moved to the first page and tapped the man's name. "Have they recovered his remains yet?"

She checked her clipboard again. "No."

"Any belongings?"

"I'm in charge of passengers," she shrugged. "When one is successfully found and identified, I mark it here. You'll have to ask Tom about luggage." She pointed over her shoulder to a young man with a Marine cut and broad shoulders.

"Thank you," Rossi smiled again and started toward Tom, but then stopped mid-stride. Turning back to her, he took a breath. "Actually, I need information about another passenger. Derek Morgan?"

Again the woman checked her clipboard. "Seat 7C," she said. "His remains have not been found yet either." Rossi felt his heart lurch, but he just nodded professionally and thanked her for her time. It would take days - maybe weeks - to catalog and identify every passenger; in the meantime, he would have to focus all of his attention on the job.

He approached Tom slowly, not wanting to interrupt the conversation he was having with an older woman in a sharp business suit.

"Ma'am, as soon as the Colonel has new information, he will report it to the appropriate agencies. I suggest you ask someone in the command tent next door." The woman sniffed once and turned on her heel, leaving Tom staring after her. Rossi cleared his throat and let out a chuckle.

"Lighten her hair and shrink her down a bit, she'd be a dead ringer for my boss." When Tom looked over in confusion, Rossi stuck out his hand. "Dave Rossi, FBI. Colonel Heffield called us in to help with the investigation. I was told you were the man to talk to if I wanted to locate some luggage."

"Tom Tuttle," he gripped Rossi's hand in a vice for a moment before letting go. "We've got several teams searching for belongings, and another in a tent across the clearing that's responsible for sorting it all out. I can certainly check for you. What's the passenger's name?"

"Gerald Rinks, seat 5A." Tom nodded and unclipped the radio from his belt.

"Baggage Recovery," he called into the device, releasing the button to wait for the response. When an older man's voice told him to go ahead, he continued. "Checking on luggage for the passenger in 5A. Gerald Rinks. R-I-N-K-S."

"Hold a moment," the man's voice answered. There was a long stretch of silence that gave Rossi a chance to look around. There were several team leaders with radios coordinating with others who looked to be go-betweens of some kind. The tent seemed to be divided into several different areas depending on responsibilities. Rossi had never been a part of a plane crash clean up, but he was surprised at the sheer number of people running around.

"Yeah," the voice returned, "I've got a small backpack with the initials GR that looks like it was in an overhead near the front of the plane. We've still got a lot of luggage to sort through, but so far none of the suitcases have that name on them."

"Roger that," Tom was ever the Marine, "Agent Rossi will be over in a moment. Thanks." He nodded once at Rossi, then looked over his shoulder. "Evan!" A young man no older than twenty bustled over eagerly. "This is Agent Rossi. Agent Rossi, Evan. He's one of our runners. He'll take you over to Baggage Recovery."

"Thank you," Rossi shook Tom's hand again and followed Evan out into the clean up effort. The circumvented the largest collection of wreckage, what looked to be the cockpit and the front third of the plane. Half of a wing was mangled and twisted off to the side, and Evan led him past it without so much as looking at the terrain.

"So Evan," Rossi lengthened his stride to catch up to the boy, "is this your first clean up?"

"Yes sir," he nodded, careful to keep his eyes up. Rossi realized he was trying to avoid seeing any of the carnage, though recovery teams had done a fairly good job of collecting the dead. The ground was still stained dark from blood, and Rossi understood all too well just how difficult a scene like this was for someone who had never seen it before. His many years as a profiler had exposed him to every type of crime scene imaginable, and he spared a quick philosophical thought regarding desensitivity and humanity.

"It's okay to feel a little ill," he said quietly. "I've been investigating murders for a long time, and each time I see a victim or a crime scene I get this little twinge right here." He tapped his chest. "I learned to ignore it, to do my job to the best of my ability so I can help others. But I never stop feeling it. I don't want to; it reminds me I'm human."

Evan glanced over at him, and Rossi hoped his words had helped. They were nearing a long white tent with two entrances on either end. Evan steered them toward the nearest opening, and as they entered Rossi gave a low whistle. Suitcases, jackets, backpacks, and duffel bags were stacked up on one side. He watched as the workers sifted through one bag at a time looking for any clues as to the former owner. Next to him, Evan flagged down an older man in a button-down flannel shirt and jeans.

"Bob, this is Agent Rossi," Evan introduced. "Excuse me, but I'm needed at the command tent. It was nice to meet you." He shot Rossi a grateful smile before dashing away. Bob chuckled and held out his hand.

"Robert Brenning, just call me Bob." He had a rich voice lilted with the accent of southern Texas, and Rossi could almost picture him on horseback with a wide-brimmed hat and a six-shooter at his hip.

"Dave," he returned the courtesy. "I appreciate your help. I know you're busy."

"I set the bag over here," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder before turning in that direction and striding away. Rossi followed quickly, side-stepping a rather frazzled looking woman wrestling with a large duffel. "None of the other passengers have the initials GR, so this must be your guy's right?" He slid the bag across the table and Rossi nodded as he grabbed the zipper and pulled.

"Here's hoping."


	17. Chapter 17

HOTCH

Dan was exactly where Hotch had expected him to be - right in the center of the action. No less than half a dozen people surrounded him armed with clipboards, radios, and pencils. Three sides of the command tent were lined with tables covered in laptops, blue prints, and various papers. A small group of people sporting FAA jackets were huddled in one corner, and in the other a pair of men on headsets were talking animatedly into their mics. Various agencies milled about so quickly, Hotch couldn't keep track of all the initials.

Dan looked up when Hotch and JJ walked in, though he didn't so much as hesitate in his speech. He dealt instructions with efficient brevity, and the group dispersed less than a minute after their arrival. With that business concluded, Dan made a beeline to where Hotch was standing.

"Hotch" he greeted with a firm handshake. He'd aged a bit since they'd seen each other last, but the Colonel's blue eyes were sharp as ever as he greeted the newcomers. His silver hair was cut close to his scalp, and his tanned skin was weathered but healthy. He'd gained a few pounds in the intervening years, though Hotch guessed it happened to everyone who retired from the military life. Still, the older man was a formidable presence in the tent.

"Colonel Heffield, it's good to see you again. This is Agent Jareau. Agent Rossi is tracking down Gerald Rinks in the other tent."

Dan nodded at JJ politely, his eyes full of sympathy. "I'm sorry about your man," he said sincerely. "It's always hard to lose one of your own."

"Thank you," Hotch kept himself composed by sheer force of will. "Have you uncovered anything new since we spoke last?"

"Nothing definitive. We're still trying to piece together the last few moments in the cockpit. Have you looked at the preliminary report?" He led them over to the side where they had a bit more privacy.

"We did," Hotch answered, "but I'd like to look into the two pilots. We need to find out if either one of them was vulnerable to bribery or blackmail."

"Dante Marks is our liaison with United Airlines," Dan half-turned and gestured to one of the groups in the opposite corner. Marks cut an imposing figure in the center of his group, his dark skin blending into the navy blue of his jacket. Dan's tone told Hotch that the airline was being less than helpful in the investigation. He guessed the accusations laid against their pilots probably didn't help. "He can get you the pilots' files."

"Actually," Hotch reached into his lapel pocket and grabbed his cell, "I have another idea." He dialed Garcia's number and she picked up on the second ring.

"Garcia." The flat, professional tone told him more about her state of mind than any assessment could have managed. Still, she was here to work and he was going to utilize her talents as much as he could.

"Garcia, I need you to dig into the pilots' lives. Everything - financials, criminal history, background checks, all of it."

"What am I looking for?" He could hear her typing away, presumably searching for their names.

"Anything that would make them crash a plane with 115 people onboard." There was a pause on the other end, and Hotch wondered if he'd been too abrupt. "Garcia?"

"Got it." Her voice was thicker when she answered, and she disconnected without saying goodbye. He glanced over at JJ and wondered for the umpteenth time if it had been a good idea bringing her along. But, as he'd stated before, no one could do what she could. Prentiss had been right; she was more useful here than sitting at home.

"I'm going go talk to Marks," JJ said, and at Hotch's nod she set off toward the far corner. Her history as their press liaison had left her with an amazing set of people skills; if anyone could get them to cooperate with the investigation, it was JJ.

His phone rang in his hand, and he answered before the first ring finished. "Hotchner."

"Hotch, I got something," Rossi told him. "I'm over here in the Baggage Recovery tent. I think we have Rinks' laptop."

"Good work," Hotch felt the beginnings of order settling over the case. This was their first real lead. "Bring the bag, we'll get Garcia to look at the computer. Reid can go through the rest of his belongings."

"They're still searching for his suitcase, if he even had one. Did they contact the fiancee yet?"

"I hope so. I was just about to check in with Prentiss."

"I'll be there in a minute." The line disconnected and Hotch stowed the phone back into his pocket as JJ came back over.

"He's adamant that his men had nothing to do with this. He's sticking to the 'storm caused the crash' story." She seemed unconvinced, and Hotch sought out Dan in the throng of people.

"How likely is it that the plane went down because of the storm?"

Dan ran a hand down his face in a weary gesture, and his entire body sagged as he sighed. He was exhausted, and Hotch wondered how long it had been since he'd slept. "A lightning strike can cause problems," he said, "but we have strict policies in place. Pilots are supposed to stay at least 25 miles away from any storms with prominent lightning. Down drafts can cause structural damage, but the likelihood of a storm causing a crash diminishes each year."

"So not very likely?"

"With the information we gathered from the cockpit, I'd say no. The storm was probably just a cover."

JJ shook her head. "As soon as we declare it intentional, Homeland Security is going to be all over this." She glanced back at the two men in uniform that seemed to be just walking about collecting information.

"I agree," Hotch nodded. "We need to be sure. We've got Rinks' bag," he gestured at Rossi coming through the tent opening with a black backpack over his shoulder, "and Garcia is digging into the pilots' lives. I think our best course is to regroup and start in on victimology." He held out his hand for Dan. "Get some sleep."

"I'll try if you will," he shot back, giving Hotch a pointed look. Rossi hid his grin by coughing, but Hotch caught it anyway and leveled a heatless glare at him.

"We'll stay in touch." Hotch ushered the other two agents out the door ahead of him, careful to keep his eyes off of the wreckage and his mind off of the fact that Morgan was somewhere among it.


	18. Chapter 18

JOHN DOE

Daylight filtered through a gap in the thick curtains, waking him as it hit his face. He'd slept fitfully, assaulted with images he didn't understand. The nurse had transferred the bed controls to the left side of him to keep him from over-reaching with his injured side. He pressed the button and heard the mechanism whirring as it lifted the top half of his bed up.

In the quiet of the morning he took stock of his injuries. Heavy medication kept him from feeling too much pain, but there was a deep ache in his right side where the doctor had said he'd broken ribs. His right shoulder was wrapped to immobilize it, and head still throbbed. He shifted in bed and stifled a gasp of pain; every muscle in his body screamed in protest.

Various tubes and lines snaked from his body to machines and IV's. A catheter kept him in bed until the doctors deemed him well enough to get up, but it didn't look like that was an option at the moment. He closed his eyes briefly against the sting of tears; he still couldn't remember what had happened, only that it had been horrific. Maybe it was better that he didn't know, he reasoned. If not remembering was this bad, he wasn't sure he wanted those memories back.

"How are we feeling this morning?"

He jumped as nurse Maggy spoke. He'd been so caught up in his own thoughts he hadn't noticed her coming in. She gave him a sympathetic smile and set down a tray of food on a side table. "Let's check out your vitals then we'll see about getting some food in you. You're getting stronger, but you'll need to start eating regular meals before we can release you."

"Release me?" he glanced up sharply at her. "I can't even remember my own name. Where will I go?"

"Easy," she laid a hand on his arm, "this is just a step in that direction. You've got a few days of recovery at least. By then, your memory will have either started to come back or..."

"Or it won't at all," he finished for her. "What happens then?"

"Well," Maggy checked his IV and jotted down some numbers on his chart, "we sent in a request for your fingerprints to be processed by our local police. It's a small force, though, so it may take a few days. If your prints are in a system, we'll know who you are and we can go from there. For now, though, I want you to focus on resting and healing."

"Resting and healing," he repeated. "I can do that." He lifted his arm so she could set the food tray in his lap.

"I'm gonna finish my rounds," Maggy unwrapped his fork and knife. "You just press that button if you need anything. I'll be back in half an hour or so to check on you."

"Thanks," he gave her a grateful smile and started to hesitantly pick at the meal in front of him as she left. As he methodically scooped the mashed potatoes into his mouth, he thought about his options. It was very likely someone out there was missing him - at least he hoped so - and as soon as he knew who he was, then he could find them as well. But what then? If his memory never came back, was it fair to his loved ones to saddle them with an amnesiac? How much pain would it cause them to look at him and know he would never remember them?

His stomach lurched and he set his fork down on the tray. He'd eaten all of the potatoes and half of the steamed veggies, but his insides rolled as he moved for the turkey slices. He tried to take a few deep breaths, but his body refused to cooperate. He lifted the tray and reached to set it on the bedside table, but it slipped from his grip and crashed to the floor. On the way down the tray snagged one of his wires and pulled it from the monitor, causing a harsh beep to sing shrilly. He gripped his ears as images assaulted him again, and he hunched in on himself as much as possible as the door burst open and a team of doctors and nurses rushed in.

"Sir!" Maggy was by his side in a flash. "Honey, can you hear me?"

Pain exploded behind his eyes as he screwed them shut, and the voices of the doctors as they reconnected and double checked everything faded away. He felt a grip on his arm that kept him anchored, but his mind threatened to spiral out of control as he struggled to regain some semblance of calm. Nothing existed for a long while except the pain and the ringing in his ears, and he fought to stay conscious as the team worked around him.

After an eternity, the whine faded away slowly, leaving his breathing heavy and his heart pounding. Maggy's grip on his arm loosened but didn't go away completely, and he carefully pulled his hands away from his head as he relaxed back into the pillows. Finally he looked up at her in horror, and his voice shook as he spoke.

"I remember," he said hoarsely. "I remember what happened."


	19. Chapter 19

GARCIA

Since the team's return from the field, the conference room that had been set up to house them had been filled with activity. Reid had already filled in some of the missing spots in the timeline, though it was still woefully bare. Prentiss and JJ had already contacted Gerald Rinks' parents in Florida and Rossi was looking into SanTech more closely. Hotch was coordinating with the local PD as well as the FAA, TSA, and the NTSB to stay in the loop, leaving Garcia to do her magic.

So far she'd accumulated several notebooks' worth of information on both pilots, but nothing stood out to her. She'd handed the information off to Reid as soon as she got it, and he was currently sifting through the files at lightning speed as she worked to restore Rinks' nearly-destroyed laptop.

Surprisingly the case had remained mostly in tact, earning a note of admiration from the tech. But the impact had shattered some of the internal components, and she was currently attempting to connect the hard drive to her system without damaging it any further. Finding out what Rinks was working on could help the team find whoever had orchestrated the crash, and Garcia's mindset had shifted suddenly from grief to vengeance. Whoever had ordered the plane crash needed to be caught and punished, and Garcia was going to do everything she could to make sure that happened.

Her computer beeped to indicate it was ready, and she plugged in the hard drive while whispering a quiet prayer. The indicator light flashed twice then stopped, but she could hear the device whirring as it turned on. It sputtered a few times but remained working, though for how long Garcia couldn't say. After a few seconds, her monitor showed she had access to the new drive and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Thank God," she breathed, and at her feet Clooney woofed his agreement softly. She reached down and patted his head once before diving into the files with gusto. Everything she opened was copied onto both her hard drive and the FBI internal network; in the very unlikely event that Reid couldn't figure it out, they needed to connect to an expert back at the Bureau.

The world around her faded away as she delved through file after file. She didn't even stop to look at any details or try to decipher the complex formulas she stumbled across. She had to retrieve as much data as possible before the hard drive gave up altogether. A few times the hard drive refused to open a folder, and on more than one occasion she had to unplug it and try again, but finally she managed to pull almost eighty percent of the information from the damaged drive.

Hotch came back just as she finished copying the last folder, and he stopped just beside her. "How's it going?"

"I've got most of the data off of the drive," she told him. "I have to say, sir, it's amazing this thing survived the crash. Someone should really write a testimonial to the manufacturer." She was aware of her rambling, but now that her primary task was completed she couldn't seem to stop the adrenaline coursing through her. They were one step closer to discovering the evil mind behind this entire tragedy. "Sorry," she added as Hotch gave her a steady stare, "I've copied it all to my main drive as well as the Bureau's network. We're not losing it."

"Good work," he praised. "We'll get Reid to look at this and try to figure out what Rinks was working on. Once we know that, we can start compiling a list of people who might want to kill him."

"Sir," she started, but then closed her mouth and shook her head. "Never mind."

"What's on your mind?" She knew he wouldn't leave it alone until she told him, so she just blurted it out.

"What if Rinks wasn't the target? What if it was someone else on the plane? We could be looking in the wrong place and giving whoever it really was more time to get out of the country or -"

"Garcia," he placed a hand on her shoulder in a rare show of affection. "I'm coordinating with another team at the BAU, and Kevin is going through the other passengers to see if they have anything in their backgrounds that might warrant such drastic measures. Don't worry, we're doing everything we can to find the person responsible."

"Okay," she looked down at her hands as she absently twirled a ring on her finger. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Actually, yes there is," Hotch dug into his coat pocket and pulled out the keys to the Bureau issued SUV. "I'm not sure any of us plans on resting very much until this case is solved," he told her pointedly.

Garcia plucked the keys from his fingers and offered him a smile. "I'll find us provisions, sir." She grabbed her coat and fled the room, Clooney hot on her heels, grateful for something useful she could do for the team. Taking care of others made her feel better, and all it would take was a quick internet search to find the nearest coffee house.

She added a stop at the grocery store for snacks, and half an hour later she returned bearing bags of food and enough coffee to fuel the entire station. The deputies smiled thankfully as she deposited cups on each desk before zipping back out to the SUV for the rest of the drinks. She'd long ago memorized her team's coffee order, and she was smiling when she entered the conference room. Reid had switched from the pilots' information to the work she'd pulled from Rinks' laptop, and as she set his cup near him he grunted his thanks without looking up from the screen.

JJ and Rossi both patted her arm in thanks as they accepted their drinks before returning to their respective tasks, and Hotch even gave her a half-smile as she passed his cup across the table. Prentiss pulled hers from the carrier as she passed, and Garcia held the last one out with a flourish.

Activity stopped for a moment, as though time had frozen, and a cold realization washed over her. She set the extra cup on the table with a shaky hand, and her breathing became short and shallow as her heart began to pound. No one spoke for a moment, and Garcia felt all of their eyes on her as she stared at the unclaimed cup.

"I'm sorry," she muttered before racing out the door, her hurried footsteps echoing off of the linoleum floor. She found the women's restroom after only a quick glance, and she managed to stifle her sob until the door was closed behind her.

Her hands clutched the cold porcelain of the sink as she hunched under the force of her emotion. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she cursed herself for letting herself lose her composure in front of the team. They needed her to be focused, and she had completely lost it because of a stupid coffee cup.

"Stupid," she swiped angrily at the tears on her face, turning on the cold water to wash the rest of them away.

"No it wasn't," JJ's voice surprised her. She must have been right behind her, waiting in silence as the tech broke down.

"I'm fine," Garcia insisted, hooking her glasses into the front of her blouse as she leaned down to splash her face. Her hands groped blindly for a paper towel, but JJ was faster. She snagged two from the dispenser and handed them to her friend.

"You're not," JJ said matter-of-factly. "None of us are. We're just doing the best we can."

"Yeah, well, everyone else's best is better than mine, obviously." Garcia dried her face and checked the mirror. Her cheeks were red, but she'd managed to stave off most of the unpleasant effects of sobbing uncontrollably. Her eyes weren't puffy or red-rimmed, and her nose wasn't dripping.

"Penelope," JJ rubbed her back comfortingly, "no one is upset with you. You've already helped us more than you know. Reid's making headway with the data, and we've already started researching possible suspects."

"Really?" She dabbed her eyes with the coarse towel.

"Really," JJ squeezed her shoulder once before turning toward the door. "Whenever you're ready."

Garcia waved after her, erasing the last drops of evidence of her tears from her face. After a few more steadying breaths, she tossed the paper towel in the trash and returned to her team.

Someone had discreetly removed the cup from the table, though almost everyone was still where they'd been when she'd bolted from the room. Hotch had stepped out of the room to take a call, and by the time Garcia made it to her chair he burst back through the conference room door.

"A hospital in the next county over called the FAA. They've got a survivor."


	20. Chapter 20

PRENTISS

 _African American male in his early to mid-thirties. Serious but stable._

The words repeated over and over in her head as she gripped the door handle tightly. Everyone had wanted to go to the hospital immediately, but they couldn't just drop their investigation on the hope that this survivor was Morgan. JJ, Reid, and Rossi had stayed behind to continue looking through the information. They needed to deliver a profile soon, and the faster they eliminated other possible targets the sooner they could focus on Rinks' life.

Prentiss had been designated the navigator as Hotch broke every speed limit sign they passed. Her phone beeped at her, and she checked their route.

"The 119 goes straight to the hospital," she said, "go right." Prentiss leaned with the turn, gripping the overhead handle as Hotch hit the siren to warn cross traffic.

"Oh God," Garcia whispered from the back seat. "I can't let myself hope, Emily, but if he's alive..."

"I know," she replied, turning just a bit to look at the near-distraught tech, "just...let's not jump ahead."

Prentiss twisted back in her seat and caught Hotch's eye. A whole conversation passed between them in the blink of an eye, but neither said a word as Garcia just wrung her hands nervously. If Morgan really was alive, it was a miracle. The odds of him being the survivor, however, were slim.

"How much longer?" Hotch called.

"Nine miles," she said after checking her phone, "maybe ten, fifteen minutes."

Hotch sped down the winding road as fast as he dared; it was sparsely populated in the early afternoon, though there were enough cars to cause him to press the brakes a few times.

Weston, West Virginia was populated by little over 4,000 people, according the welcome sign they passed. Hotch slowed a bit as they entered the city limits, but he kept the siren on to warn others of their urgency.

"There," Prentiss pointed ahead to a two-toned building that stretched out to the right of the road. Hotch slowed and took the turn, pulling into a front space marked reserved.

Stonewall Jackson Memorial Hospital was tucked neatly against the side of the road, just on the edge of Weston. The nurse at the front station greeted them with a smile, but her face quickly changed to confusion as Hotch flashed his badge.

"Agent Aaron Hotchner, FBI," he identified himself. "This is Agent Prentiss and Garcia. We were informed that you have a patient who claims to have survived the plane crash."

Prentiss guessed there wasn't anyone in the whole state who hadn't heard about the crash, and the small nature of the community worked in their favor.

"301," the nurse nodded. "Doctor Stevens is the attending for that floor. I'll page him."

Doctor Stevens arrived after only a few minutes, but it was enough time for Garcia to pace around the small area a few times. Prentiss grabbed her hand to stop her, squeezing once in reassurance before joining Hotch and the doctor.

"You got here fast," the doctor was saying.

"Can we see the patient?" Hotch asked directly.

"Follow me," the doctor waved them back, leading them through a series of corridors as he spoke. "A couple of days ago, a pair of campers brought him in. They found him wandering along the side of the road muttering. He looked like he'd been through hell, but we assumed it was a car accident or maybe he'd just gotten lost in the woods. We heard about the crash, of course, but it's so far away we never entertained the idea that he'd walked all that way. We kept checking, but no one was ever reported missing. When he woke up he couldn't remember anything, not his name, not what had happened to him, nothing."

Prentiss heard Garcia gasp next to her, and she quickly patted the younger woman on the shoulder.

Stevens must have noticed, too, because he offered a sympathetic smile. "It's not uncommon for someone who experiences a traumatic incident to lose memory of the event, or even personal details. We hoped it would wear off with rest and recuperation."

"And has it?" Hotch asked.

"Some of his memory has returned," Stevens answered. "This afternoon, just after lunch, he had an episode. We thought he was having a reaction to new medication, but when it was over he claimed he remembered what happened. He started talking about a plane crash, and we called you immediately." They stopped in front of a closed door with a small plastic plaque that read 301.

Hotch frowned slightly. "You said some of his memory has returned?"

"He still doesn't remember his name, or anything about his life more than images and flashes. It may still come back to him, but he remembers the plane crash pretty vividly. I can't believe someone actually managed to walk away from that. I've seen the pictures on the news." Stevens shook his head and ran a hand over his face wearily. "You can question him, but don't stress him. He's still recovering from his injuries, and he may tire easily." He glanced over Hotch's shoulder at someone at the end of the hall. "Excuse me."

Hotch waited until he was gone, then turned to the other two. "Perhaps it would be best if I went in first," he began, but Garcia shook her head.

"I need to know, Hotch," she whispered.

He looked at Prentiss for help, but Emily just shook her head as well. "Alright," he caved, gripping the handle in his hand.

The room was dark with the curtains drawn, and the steady beep of machines filled the silence. A figure occupied the lone bed in the room, and the rise and fall of his chest told them he was sleeping. As they entered he stirred, and his eyes opened slowly to meet their gazes.

"Hi," the man spoke softly, swallowing a few times to clear his throat.

For a moment Garcia was frozen to the spot, her hand tucked tightly within Prentiss' grip. The sob that had caught in her throat upon seeing the man tore loose, and she turned and bolted from the room.

"I'll go," Prentiss told Hotch, not even waiting for his approving nod before chasing after the tech.

She was slumped against the wall just outside the door, her knees drawn to her chest. Her sobs were muffled by her arms, but they quieted a bit as Prentiss slid down next to her. Not for the first time, Prentiss wondered why JJ hadn't been the one to come instead of her; she and Garcia were closer friends, and the younger woman was far better at comforting and consoling distraught loved ones.

"Shh," Prentiss slipped her arm over Garcia's shoulder, accepting the woman's weight as she leaned just a bit into the warm embrace. "I'm so sorry, Penelope." She'd almost expected to see Morgan lying in that hospital bed with that cocky half-grin on his face when they walked in. The face that had greeted them hadn't been Morgan, but it had been familiar.

As she held her grieving friend, Prentiss wondered how she was going to break the news to Stephanie Wilkers.


	21. Chapter 21

So, I sense some of you were a wee bit upset with me regarding the last chapter. I understand. But thank you for sticking with me. We're on the home stretch now (just six more chapters after this one).

* * *

HOTCH

"What's going on?" Gerald Rinks sat up a little straighter in his bed, wincing as he did so.

Hotch took a step forward and adopted his best poker face. Deep down, he'd been hoping Morgan had somehow survived. He knew the odds were against him, but his mind was still trying to process everything that had happened in the last 48 hours. But now he was faced with an entirely different dilemma, and he had to figure out how best to approach it.

"Sir, my name is Aaron Hotchner. I'm an agent with the FBI, we're here aiding in the investigation into the plane crash. What can you remember?"

"Not much," Rinks answered. "At first it was just images and voices that made no sense. I remember leaning against the window looking out, then the entire plane just sort of dropped."

"Dropped?"

"Yeah, like we hit some turbulence. It was dark outside because of the storm, but the captain had already warned us about a rough ride. I've been in a few planes, so I'm used to turbulence. That was different." He pressed a button that raised his bed to a sitting position as Hotch took the chair next to his bed.

"Do you remember anything just before the crash? A pilot announcement maybe?"

"No," Rinks shook his head softly. "We just tipped forward suddenly. The top of the cabin came off, then...nothing."

"I probably don't have to tell you how lucky you are. Your doctors tell me you still don't remember anything about your life." His voice lilted upward to indicate a question, and Rinks shrugged.

"Flashes mostly," he admitted. "Faces, events...nothing that makes sense."

"Someone is on her way here as we speak," Hotch told him. "She's going to be very happy to see you."

"I wish I could say the same," Rinks frowned. "Did...did I know her well?" Hotch nodded. "Oh God, is she my wife?" He checked his hands for any sign of a ring.

"Fiancee," Hotch corrected. "But don't push yourself. Your doctors say your memory may still come back."

"Or it might not come back at all," Rinks snapped back, then immediately grimaced. "I'm sorry."

"No need," Hotch stood. "I'm going to let you rest, but I'd like to keep in contact with you, if that's alright. I may have more questions."

"Of course," Rinks nodded. "You know where to find me."

"Take care." Hotch turned to walk out the door, but Rinks' voice stopped him.

"Wait!" Hotch complied, angling his body back in question. "You know that I have a fiancee, you obviously recognize me. What's my name?"

"It's Gerald," he said. "Gerald Rinks."

"Gerald Rinks," he tested out the name, saying it again for good measure. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Mr. Rinks." And he left. Prentiss and Garcia were huddled on the floor next to the door and Hotch felt his own emotions rising at the sight. "Time to go," he said softly. Prentiss rocked back onto her heels as she slid her arm out from behind Garcia, then lifted to her feet. The tech sniffed softly and looked up at her boss with tear-filled eyes. Hotch reached down to help her up, and when she was standing he squeezed Garcia's hands tightly before releasing them.

"How is he?" she asked softly. He gave her a warm look, astounded once more at the depth of this woman's heart.

"Confused, maybe a little scared," he said, "but he'll be alright." He nodded back toward the empty corridor. "We need to get back to the team." They fell into step beside him, and by the time they reached the front desk she had regained control of her emotions. Prentiss stepped away to check in with the others and tell them the news. When she slid into the passenger seat of the SUV, she glanced once back at Garcia before telling Hotch what she'd learned.

"They found the bodies of the pilot and co-pilot. JJ fought with the FAA and United to get jurisdiction, but they're doing a full autopsy on both of them. We should have some preliminary results in the morning."

"Good," Hotch started the car and eased out of the parking lot. "It's starting to get late," he said. "Our best course of action might be to get some rest and hit this thing fresh in the morning."

"No," Garcia sat forward suddenly in her seat. "Sir, there were survivors. And if Gerald Rinks walked away then maybe others did, too. Maybe -" her breath hitched and she swallowed a few times. "We should at least call all the hospitals in the area and check."

Hotch frowned and opened his mouth to tell her it was unlikely and probably a waste of time, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Prentiss shake her head and he changed his mind mid-breath. "Alright," he agreed. "When we get back to the station, you can call around. But we're all going back to the hotel at ten, no exceptions. We need to be well-rested."

"Thank you," Garcia breathed. "Thank you."

He wasn't sure how much good would come of it, but if it was something she felt she needed to do he wasn't going to stop her. Accepting the truth was hard enough without shreds of hope to cling to; if this helped her to finally move on he would consider it time well spent.


	22. Chapter 22

REID

They all met in the Hotch's room the next morning for a quick briefing. They had received the results of the autopsies and JJ was running through the ME findings when he arrived.

"Spence, look at this," she beckoned him over with a nod of her head. He gratefully accepted the cup of coffee she handed him as he stopped next to her. "What do you make of this?"

His eyes scanned down the page swiftly, and his mind immediately sorted and cataloged the information. "Odd," he mumbled. "This blow here," he indicated a skull fracture on the pilot's right temporal bone, "doesn't look like it was caused by the crash."

"That's what the coroner thinks, too," JJ said. "It looks like someone bashed his head in." She flipped through the folder quickly, and his eyes lit on a picture that seemed out of place.

"Wait, go back," he pointed at the file, wiggling his finger when she complied. "Something's not right," he pulled the photo out of the folder. Someone had taken photos of the entire scene before they'd moved any of the bodies, and all of the pictures of the cockpit had been included in the report. "See this here?" he tapped the center of the picture where the pilot was still buckled into his seat. He hung limply in death, and the way the seat had twisted, only the safety harness had kept him from falling to the ground.

"What about it?"

"It's not right," Reid answered excitedly. He could feel his entire body thrumming with energy that had nothing to do with the coffee in his hand. It was the same buzz he experienced every time a case started to come together. _This is important_ , his mind was telling him. _Pay attention._ "He's not buckled in properly," he mumbled, setting his coffee down on the small table as Hotch and Rossi came over.

"What's that?" Rossi peered over his shoulder.

"The pilot isn't buckled into his seat properly," Reid angled the photo so everyone could see. "It's not cinched down where it should be if he'd done it himself. I think someone else put him in the seat after knocking him out."

"The co-pilot?" Hotch posited.

"No, look," JJ had pulled out another photo and laid it alongside the autopsy report. "The co-pilot shows the same temporal fracture. And look," she pointed at the photo, "he was placed in his seat, too."

Hotch frowned as he looked at both photos. "Who else has access to the cockpit?"

"Flight attendants," Garcia's voice started them, and they all turned toward the door where she and Prentiss were hovering. Garcia had spent the rest of the previous evening phoning every hospital in a sixty mile radius to check for unconscious patients, amnesiacs, or even deceased John Does. Her search had come up empty, and at ten o'clock Hotch had ordered her back to the hotel with the rest of the team.

"She's right," Prentiss stepped in and closed the door behind them. "Flight attendants would have the necessary codes to get into the cockpit in the event of an emergency. It wouldn't be too hard to wait until one of them left - say, to the go to the bathroom?"

"If they were blitzed near the bathroom someone would have seen it," Hotch dismissed that line immediately. "It had to happen in the cockpit."

"So the attendant waits for one of the pilots to go to the bathroom, blitzes one in the cockpit, then the other when he returns?" Reid wondered aloud. It felt right. It fit the facts, and he could see the rest of the team agreed.

"Okay," Prentiss nodded, "but that's an awfully small space for an attack. The unsub would have to be pretty strong to knock them out with one blow and no leverage. I doubt any of the female attendants could have managed it."

"Agreed," Hotch said. "Our unsub is most likely a man." They all turned to their tech, but she was a step ahead of them. Garcia had already pulled her laptop from her bag and was typing away from a corner chair.

"There was only one male flight attendant on that plane," she turned the computer around to show the team. "Michael Rosenbath."

"Dig into his life," Hotch directed her. "You and I will go back to the station to look at the remaining passengers' lives. It's still a long shot that any of them were a target, but I want to be sure." He angled his body toward the team as he delegated the day's tasks. "Rossi, JJ, and Reid go back to the crash site and see if any new information has surfaced. JJ, since you already have a rapport with the airline, see if you can find out any information on Rosenbath. Reid I want you to take a look at the wreckage, see if anything else is out of place." He turned to Prentiss and handed her a slip of paper. "Prentiss I want you to meet Ms. Wilkers at the airport. No one could get a hold of her yesterday to deliver the news of Gerald's survival. I think she should hear it from us rather than the news. And Mr. Rinks may still be a target, so stay with him. Contact the local PD and see if they can lend us a few officers to guard him."

"Got it," Prentiss folded the paper into her pocket and slipped out the door. Garcia was still typing away, presumably tearing Michael Rosenbath's life apart. Reid let JJ push him out the door ahead of her and Rossi, but before the door closed behind him he heard Hotch telling her to pack everything up.

Reid spent the ride out to the crash site reciting the case facts in his head. He ran through everything in chronological order to see if anything felt out of place, but ever since the discovery of the pilots' murders it all seemed to fit. The odds of both pilots having been a part of the plot were almost astronomical, meaning at least one of them had to have been incapacitated before the crash. But nothing in either man's life indicated they were the type to murder a plane full of people. Reid would lay money on the odds that Rosenbath's background check came back with all sorts of anomalies.

All of the bodies that had been found had been removed, leaving a clearing full of wreckage and debris. Reid knew the violence of the impact could have decimated human remains completely, depending on how their bodies had impacted during the crash. Most of the workers still present were hovering around the two tents on the right side of the field, and Rossi made a beeline for one of them with JJ in tow as Reid ambled around the crash site.

He'd seen all the pictures, and his mind supplied the memory of each one as he walked through the different sections of the fuselage. The photos had been taken before they'd removed the crash victims, and so as he looked at each seat he could vividly recall the face of the passenger that had once occupied it. Sometimes, he thought, his memory was more of a curse than a gift.

He meant to go straight to first class to see where Gerald Rinks had sat, but his feet carried him to a section of seats a little further back in the cabin. Morgan had been right here, and as he knelt down Reid chronicled each detail with almost obsessive precision. There was blood on the seat, though the water from the fire hoses had washed most of it away. A pair of mangled headphones was wedged underneath the seat, and Reid swallowed the hard lump in his throat. He tried not to think about how many times he'd seen those headphones over the seats of their private jet or draped over Morgan's neck as he joked with the younger profiler. What drew his attention, however, was something else entirely, something that sent that little "this is important" bell ringing in his head again.

He stood and began walking among the seats, gathering data to support what his initial observation was telling him. After analyzing every possible row and recalling the chart of occupied seats that he'd compiled yesterday, Reid felt his heart rate pick up. He dug through his pockets until he found his phone, and his finger hit the speed dial for JJ even as he raised it to his ear.

"Jareau," she greeted.

"JJ, you and Rossi need to get out here," he said quickly. "I think Morgan may have survived."


	23. Chapter 23

My apologies for getting this up so late. Today was sort of a little bit crazy, but it's better now. Enjoy!

* * *

JJ

She interrupted Rossi's conversation with only minimal regret. Colonel Heffield didn't look put out, but Rossi shot her a confused frown as she bustled over and inserted herself between them. "Reid found something," she said, trying to control her own emotions as her younger friend's words repeated in her head. "He says we need to go out there."

"Alright," Rossi seemed to sense her urgency, because he followed after only a quickly mumbled, "Excuse me, Colonel."

They found the young agent pacing among the seats, the debris torn apart and mangled from the impact. As they neared he looked up, and his agitation rose. "What's going on, Reid?" JJ was careful to keep back from the area, intent as Reid was on showing them some revelation.

"Okay, look here," he indicated a row of seats that had been almost bent in half from the crash. JJ could make out the faint letter D on a chair, but there was no indication which row this was. "You see the belts here?" He indicated the row he was currently standing in front of. "They've all been ripped away at the seam, where they are weakest. That means that in the crash the belts came away from the seat. Others, like this one," he turned and knelt in front of another row, lifting one to show, "have been cut away with a tool; most likely by one of the recovery crews when they removed the body."

"Spence, I don't understand," she pressed, urging him to get to the point.

"Okay, follow me," he turned and strode carefully through the wreckage to first class, where Gerald Rinks had been sitting. "Look," he pointed at the row of seats.

"I don't see anything," she shook her head and tried to keep her frustration from seeping into her tone. Reid often walked her through his thought processes when explaining things; it was easier than trying to keep up with his leaps of logic and usually she was grateful for it. Right now, however, she just wanted him to get to the point and let her get back inside the tent where she didn't have to see the evidence of the tragedy before her.

"This is Gerald Rinks' seat," Reid explained. "See here?" He held up the two sides of the seat belt in question.

"The belt was unbuckled," Rossi answered, and a second look confirmed it.

"Okay," JJ said, "but we know Rinks walked away from the crash. He had to have unbuckled himself."

"Right," Reid lit up and he dashed past them back into the main cabin area. "Look." He pointed emphatically. JJ knelt down and examined the row he was indicating.

"The seat belt has been unbuckled," she said slowly, feeling her heart rate pick up despite the warning bells in her head. "Was this seat occupied?" She already knew the answer to the question, but she needed to hear it out loud. If Reid said it was possible, then it was.

"This was Morgan's seat," Reid confirmed. "JJ, he unbuckled _after_ the crash. He survived, JJ." Reid's voice broke on the last, and she squeezed his arm.

"Let's not jump to conclusions, Spence," she warned, though in her mind she was cheering and jumping up and down in triumph. She had to take a steadying breath as Rossi shook his head.

"He could have simply not been buckled during the crash," Rossi posited. "If our scenario is correct, it happened very quickly."

"Even in full descent, there would have been time to buckle a seat belt," Reid argued. "Besides, Morgan always remains buckled on commercial flights. I remember he told me it's because both his mother and Garcia insist."

Rossi shook his head sadly. "But if you're right and he survived, then where is he? Garcia checked every hospital in a sixty mile radius." JJ could sense the hope in his tone, but he was ever the realist. He was also right. If Morgan was alive, he would have contacted them.

"I don't know," Reid was still adamantly optimistic, "but I do know that Morgan walked away from this crash."

"Hang on," JJ jogged over to the command tent and poked her head in. "Colonel, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure," he excused himself from the briefing he was attending and walked over to her.

"Colonel, do you know this area very well?"

"No, sorry," he shook his head. "But Bob does." He grabbed his radio and pressed the button. "Baggage Recovery."

"Go ahead," a man with a deep Southern drawl answered.

"Hey, Bob, can you come over here a moment? Agent Jareau has a question for you."

"Be right there." JJ tried to conceal her nerves, but she couldn't hide the clench of her hands as she waited for Bob to arrive.

"Is there something wrong?" Heffield asked.

"Reid seems to think it may be possible that someone else walked away from the crash." Then, because Colonel Heffield deserved the whole truth, she added, "Agent Morgan's seat belt was unbuckled rather than broken or cut away."

"He might not have had it buckled," Heffield countered.

"We don't think so," she looked up as an older man walked through the open tent flap. He looked every inch the Texas cowboy, including a western-style shirt tucked into black jeans. The buckle on his belt wasn't a rodeo prize, but JJ could make out the embossed stallion easily in the low light.

"Bob, this is Agent Jareau from Virginia. She's got some questions for you." JJ shook the man's work-roughened hand as the Colonel excused himself to jump in on a FAA briefing. Bob nodded in familiar greeting to Rossi before turning back to JJ.

"What can I do for you ma'am?"

"I was wondering how well you know this area," JJ began. "We think another passenger may have survived and walked away. We've already checked with hospitals in the area, but none have reported new patients that could be from the crash."

"If they walked into the woods and got caught outside, I don't like their chances," Bob answered truthfully. "Especially after three days."

"Are there any places around here that would serve as shelter?" JJ wondered which would be worse; knowing Morgan had died in the crash, or that he'd survived only to fall prey to the harsh elements.

"There are a few places," Bob told her, "but most likely, if they survived and haven't turned up, then one of the locals found them. We got a lot of people in these parts that live off the grid, completely isolated. It's possible they might have taken him in thinking he was a lost hiker and not even known about the crash."

Hope sprang in her heart again, and this time she let it. They would need to comb the area immediately to look for these locals. When she mentioned it, Bob shook his head sadly.

"Most of those folks are mistrustful of the government. They won't appreciate federal agents intruding on their territory." He paused for a moment, and the lines in his faces deepened as he concentrated. After a moment he nodded, as though he'd been having an argument with himself and won. "Could be a few of our local sheriffs could take a look. They can cover the ground faster than you could anyway. I have a friend in the department I can ask."

"Thank you," JJ shook his hand again, this time more fervently. "I can get you a picture of the man we're looking for."

"I'll call him now." Bob stepped outside to make the call as JJ returned to Rossi and Reid. She told them what she'd learned, and Reid's entire face lit up with a smile.

"I can't wait to see Garcia's face when we tell her," he grinned, but JJ just laid her hand on his arm and shook her head softly.

"We probably shouldn't tell her until we have more information," she said, and she saw Rossi nod in agreement out of the corner of her eye.

"Why not?" Reid - despite all the horrors he had seen - was sometimes still that young, naive agent that had harbored a boyish crush on her and looked up to the team as a surrogate family.

"False hope is sometimes worse than harsh truth," Rossi explained. "Losing Morgan hurt her, kid. And then we found a survivor, only to find out it wasn't Morgan. I imagine it was like losing him all over again. A third time might kill her."

JJ patted Reid's arm in sympathy at his sad look. "Why don't you call Hotch and fill him in," she suggested. "I'm going to go have a talk with the United guys about their flight attendants."


	24. Chapter 24

ROSSI

An hour had passed before his phone rang. He dug it from his lapel pocket and checked the screen before answering. The other people in the command tent didn't even look up from their tasks as he spoke.

"Rossi," he greeted Hotch.

"Dave, have you heard anything?" He sounded eager, and Rossi found he couldn't really blame their Unit Chief. They dealt with so much death and destruction in their everyday jobs, and the grief that had enveloped the team during this case had been a shroud on this entire investigation. Hotch often ignored his own emotions in favor of making sure his team was taken care of, and the past few days had been no exception. If anyone deserved a glimmer of hope, it was Aaron Hotchner.

"Not yet," Dave answered. "What about you? Any luck tracking down our flight attendant?"

"Actually, that's why I was calling," he replied evenly. "Garcia managed to track down a series of payments to Michael Rosenbath that led to a shell company funded by an organization opposing SanTech's latest developments. Whatever Rinks was working on, it wasn't very popular with a few of the extremist groups."

"Unpopular enough to kill over a hundred people for," Rossi growled. He really hated extremists, especially those that thought their cause justified hurting or killing innocent people.

"Officers are on the way now to apprehend the owner of the account," Hotch said. "Rosenbath had a number of felony arrests as a minor, but his record was expunged before he went to work for United. He was also a rather unlucky gambler." Rossi could almost hear Hotch's frown as he detailed the life of the disturbed man who had crashed a plane to kill one person. "He'd accumulated quite a bit of debt, and after his doctor told him he had less than a year to live he decided he wanted to leave his family with more than just deficit."

"How much did they pay him?" Rossi wondered.

"Two million."

Rossi gave a low whistle. "I didn't realize corporate assassination was so lucrative."

"Needless to say, SanTech's opposition will be held accountable," Hotch said, then lowered his voice. "Garcia's packing everything up now. Any new information?"

"I'll try to find out more, but it's probably going to take a while to search the area. I'm not even entirely sure how many square miles we're talking about here."

"Alright, keep me updated."

"Will do, Aaron." Rossi keyed his phone off and stowed it in his lapel pocket. After taking a steadying breath, he turned in place and found Bob Brenning speaking to the young runner from before. Rossi's mind worked to supply a name, and by the time he made it to them he was smiling.

"Evan, it's good to see you again," he clapped the young man on the shoulder before shaking Bob's hand. "Bob," he greeted. "Any word from the search parties?"

"They've checked with a few of the locals in the area," he confirmed. "So far none of them are reporting a stranger in the woods. They're going to hit a few more houses before the sun goes down, then pick it back up in the morning."

"Thanks," Rossi nodded. "I just got word from Agent Hotchner," he told them. "They found the person responsible for the crash."

"Good," Bob's face tightened in anger. "I hope he rots in hell." Rossi thought he might have spit on the ground if not for being indoors.

JJ stepped up next to him and tapped him on the shoulder. "We're headed back to the station," she told him.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to hang out for a few more hours, see if they find anything." He glanced at Bob in askance, and the old cowboy shrugged.

"I can drop you off on my way back into town," he offered, and JJ nodded in agreement.

"Alright, I'll let Hotch know." She shared one last look with Rossi before disappearing through the tent flap.

Most of the agencies had gone back to their hotels for the day, leaving the command tent eerily quiet. Rossi accepted Bob's invitation to sit at a nearby table, and Evan fetched them all drinks from the daily-stocked cooler.

"So how often do you do this kind of thing?" Rossi asked the older man, and Bob took a long drink of his soda before answering.

"Not often," he said. "I was a small town sheriff in Texas for almost thirty years. After I retired, my wife and I moved out here to be closer to her family. I sort of just fell in with the volunteer community, and when they need us we respond."

"What about you, Evan?" Rossi angled his body to include the young man in their conversations.

"I'm from here," he shrugged. "I want to be an EMT," he continued. "I've done some work at the hospital, and when they mentioned this I thought it would be a good experience."

"You still want to be an EMT?" Rossi was only half-joking. For anyone not used to it, this level of carnage could be off-putting.

"Yes sir," Evan nodded enthusiastically. "These poor souls didn't have much of a chance, but others do. I want to help them."

"Good for you," Rossi praised.

"What about you?" Bob prodded. "How'd you get into the FBI?"

"Same as everyone else, I'm afraid," Rossi joked. "I started out bright-eyed and full of energy, like Evan here." He tipped his can toward the boy. "Sometimes I miss the simplicity of those days."

"So you guys catch serial killers?" Evan leaned forward in his chair eagerly, and Rossi chuckled. He'd obviously been chatting with Reid.

"Sometimes," he confirmed. "The BAU doesn't just focus on murderers, though that is probably the majority of our cases."

"So you've seen a lot of bodies, then," Evan guessed.

"Too many," Rossi nodded grimly. "Way too many."

"How do you keep from losing it?" It was clear that Evan's line of questioning was becoming more than casual interest, and Rossi set his can on the table and sat up a little straighter.

"You have to find something to remind you why you do it. Even if it's something small, you need an anchor to your humanity or you go crazy. I knew a profiler who kept a picture of every person he'd ever saved in a little journal along with their name. Others have family they can cling to, or friends to talk to. Every one of us is a bit different." Then, sensing there was more to Evan's words than he was letting on, he continued. "Helping people is a noble profession, and not everyone can do it. Just remember that. Everything else will fall into place."

"Right," Evan sat back and mulled over the words as Bob's phone broke the ensuing silence. Rossi tried not to appear too curious, but the way the retired sheriff was nodding and answering it was difficult to keep his questions off his face. When Bob hung up he pushed his chair back and stood.

"That was Darryl Massey," he said as though Rossi knew who that was. "He wants us to meet him at a house nearby. He might have something, but the owner is being ornery."

"Let's go," Rossi jumped up from his seat and patted Evan's shoulder as they passed him. "See you later, kid."

As the crow flies, the house was only a few miles away, but it took them nearly half an hour to navigate the winding dirt road. They reached a turn off decorated with a variety of "Keep Out" signs. Rossi's eyes barely caught the nearest one as they passed through the gate and slipped through the trees.

"Trespassers will be shot," he recited. "Survivors will be shot again. Friendly bunch around here."

"It's not Texas," Bob agreed. "These folks like to keep to themselves."

There was a single sheriff's vehicle sitting next to two rusted trucks, one that had probably once been red and another that was peeled down to its primer. Tangled fishing poles rested against the far side of the red one, and a bit behind the main house sat an old dog house that looked just a few years newer than the house.

Two county deputies were standing on the porch looking half-scared and half-annoyed. It was a wonder they hadn't been ousted by gunfire yet, but Rossi guessed it was their uniforms that saved them. In his sport coat and jeans, Rossi was more likely to take a bullet if this went badly.

As they got out of Bob's truck, the younger deputy sighed audibly in relief. "Thank God you're here, Bob. He won't let us in."

"Man's got a right to his property!" A voice answered from within, withered with age but no less spirited for it. "'Less'n you got a warrant?"

"No Lincoln," Bob hopped up the two small stairs at the base of the porch to join the conversation. "No warrant. You've done nothing wrong. We're just looking for a young man who might have survived the plane crash."

"Plane crash?" The voice countered. "No plane crashed in these parts. I'd have seen it."

"It's a ways from here," Bob agreed, "but the young man we're looking for survived and may have walked away."

There was a moment of silence, then the door cracked open. The man behind it appeared to be older, dressed in a pair of old jeans and a button up flannel. His white hair stuck up at an odd angle at the back of his head, and his face was covered in a fine scruff, lightening his weather-worn skin. He was fit for a man in his seventies, the years of tolling on the land evident in his broad shoulders and calloused hands. He appraised the group on the porch with a keen eye, as though he could tell lies from truth by simply staring them down.

"How do I know this isn't some trick for you to come in my home and snoop around?" His question was directed at Bob, but his sharp blue eyes never left Rossi's face.

"Sir," the agent stepped forward, "the man we're looking for is my friend. If he's inside your house, please let me see him."

"If he's your friend, then describe him." It was first real confirmation that there was someone else in the house. Rossi grabbed his phone eagerly and found Morgan's contact info, complete with a goofy profile picture the younger man had posed for.

"Here," he turned the screen toward the man. "His name is Derek Morgan. He's an FBI agent, like me. Everyone thought he died in the crash. His mother is making plans to bury him right now."

He seemed to contemplate this for a moment. Then he sighed. "Alright," the man stepped back. "Just you."

Rossi rushed forward into the house, following the quick gesture of the owner to a back room tucked behind a staircase. The door was closed but unlocked, and when Rossi turned the handle and pushed he let out a huff of air that shook with the relief that slammed him.

"He ain't opened his eyes since he stumbled into my yard," the man explained. "It was a damn chore gettin' him into bed, but he didn't look too bad. Had some blood around his head that I cleaned up alright, and some nasty bruises that mean his ribs is probably broke. He ain't gone into shock or seized or nothing, so I figured he just needed to rest up a bit. Thought maybe he was a hiker or somethin' that got lost. I've managed to get some soup and water into him, but just barely. If no one came lookin' by tomorrow, I was gonna head into town and get the doc."

True to the man's word, Morgan looked bruised and cut but not seriously injured. Rossi leaned over the man and gripped his shoulder.

"Morgan," he tried once. "Derek can you hear me?" Morgan groaned softly, but didn't open his eyes. Rossi took a breath and tried a different approach. "Morgan!" This time the man jolted and stirred. "That's it, come on. I need you to open your eyes, Derek." He glanced over his shoulder and found the man leaning against the door jamb. "Could you please go ask one of the officers to call for medical help."

"I don't want a bunch of people swarming my land!" he barked.

"I need to get this man to a hospital," he snapped back. "The sooner that happens, the sooner we all leave you alone."

"Alright," the man grumbled. "Be glad to be rid of ya." He disappeared from the door as Rossi sat on the mattress.

"Hang on, Derek," he gripped the man's hand tightly. "We're gonna get you home." He didn't know if Morgan could hear him well, but he kept speaking to fill the silence. "Garcia is gonna have kittens when we tell her. Everyone will," he added with a chuckle. "As soon as we get to the hospital, I'll make sure somebody calls your mom."

He pulled his cell from his pocket and shot Hotch a quick text. After a few seconds the device buzzed, and Rossi smiled at the response. "Guess they're meeting us there." Distant sirens grew louder, and Rossi kept talking about everything Morgan had missed about the case and investigation. He moved aside as medics assessed his condition and loaded him onto a gurney. Rossi didn't know much about the medical jargon being shouted back and forth, but he responded to the urgency in their tone. With one last nod of thanks to Bob and the deputies, Rossi jumped into the back with Morgan, hanging on for dear life as they careened back up the dirt road.


	25. Chapter 25

GARCIA

Garcia slowly packed away each of her screens and wires meticulously. Each time she zipped a case closed her heart broke a little more. The case was over, the bad guy had been caught, and they were headed home. Prentiss had called earlier to report that Gerald Rinks and his fiancee were resting comfortably under guard, and with Stephanie's help his memory was slowly returning piece by piece. It had been good news, but Garcia hadn't been able to muster up any happy thoughts for them. _It's not fair_ , her mind supplied. It was a darker side to her thoughts that she didn't often indulge in; the universe didn't need any more bad vibes, and she made it a point to keep hers locked up tight. But she couldn't help the small pang of anger at the thought of Gerald Rinks - the intended target all along - resting with his loved ones while other poor souls on the flight had perished.

 _It's not fair_ , she thought again as her keyboard slipped snugly into the foam that had been cut perfectly to contain it. Her mouse rested next to it, its wire wrapped securely underneath. Some of her tech pool comrades often made light of the fact that she still used wired peripherals when they had all switched to wireless, but just the thought of the connection fritzing out when her team needed her most was enough to keep her keyboard and mouse connected the old fashioned way.

Hotch's phone buzzed in his pocket, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him check the screen and freeze. It was never a good sign when their inflappable bossman was caught off-guard, and she found herself drawn to pay attention to his demeanor. He texted something in response then slipped the phone back into his pocket. He glanced up and caught her eye, and Garcia was floored at the sheer emotion she saw in his gaze.

"What is it?" JJ had noticed as well, and even Reid stopped what he was doing as Hotch stepped over to them.

"That was Dave," he said, and it must have meant something to the other two agents because JJ sank down into a nearby chair and Reid's face drained of what little color it had. "We need to get to the hospital."

"Oh my God," JJ breathed, and suddenly all eyes were on Garcia.

"What's going on?"

"Garcia," Hotch moved to her side and gripped her arm gently. "We'll explain in the car. But we need to go."

"Wait," Garcia shrugged her arm from the man's grasp and glanced under her desk. "We can't just leave Clooney here alone." She was hoping to buy some time, or even get a clue to what was obviously an "agents only" secret.

"Bring him," Hotch surprised her again, tapping his leg lightly in an invitation to the dog. Clooney woofed softly and jumped up happily as he followed Hotch out the door. JJ grabbed her arm and dragged her along as Reid closed up behind them. As they left the station, JJ's voice was soft as she explained.

"When we went out to the crash site this morning, Reid found something. You know that Gerald managed to walk away from the crash, and when we found where he was sitting it was obvious he'd survived." She spoke slowly, but Garcia could hear the eagerness in her voice. "He had unbuckled his own belt," she continued. "As Reid examined the wreckage, he found one other seat with the same evidence."

Garcia's mind raced to fill in the gaps, to reach the conclusion her heart had been clinging to for the last few days. _One other seat? And Rossi had stayed behind? And they were headed to the hospital? That could only mean..._

Spots danced in front of her eyes as hands reached out to grab her. She heard someone murmur something about lifting her feet before her vision went dark.

She woke in the car, startled by a rather large bump in the road. She was lying down in the backseat, her legs elevated by a stack of bulletproof vests from the back.

"Penelope, are you alright?" JJ was sitting in the seat behind Reid, leaning over as far as her seat belt would allow to check on her friend. A bottle of water was in her outstretched hand as Garcia sat up blearily.

"What happened?" Garcia accepted the drink automatically but didn't open it.

"You fainted," Reid supplied helpfully. "JJ and I barely caught you in time. Some officers helped get you into the car. You were only out for a few minutes."

Garcia blinked a few times to clear the fog that had surrounded her brain. She tried to remember what had happened, but her head throbbed from the effort.

"We should be at the hospital in fifteen minutes or so," Hotch said from the driver's seat.

 _The hospital_ , she thought. They had been headed to the hospital before, and JJ had told her...

"Oh my God, JJ," she sat forward as her heart began hammering in her chest. "Tell me this isn't a dream. This would be the worst dream ever."

JJ shook her head as her eyes filled with tears. "Not a dream, Pen," she reached out to grip Garcia's hand in her own. "It's real. Morgan survived... _somehow_ ," she added with a watery laugh.

"Oh God, I'm gonna faint again," Garcia felt her vision swim and she collapsed back into her seat. From the floor of the car, Clooney gave a whine of concern. She reached down and gripped the dog's fur in a light grip. "This is real," she told the pup. "He's really alive."

"We're going to beat Rossi and the ambulance to the ER," Hotch said. "The doctors are going to need to check him over thoroughly before we'll be allowed to see him."

"I don't care," Garcia shook her head, "I'll wait a week as long as I can see him. I need to see him."

"You will," JJ promised. Then, with a slight smile, she added the best icing to the cake. "I thought you might want to be the one to tell Mrs. Morgan her son is alive."

"Yes," Garcia dug for her phone quickly, her elation ramping up into excited rapture, "yes, yes, yes." Her fingers were shaky as she pressed the keys that would connect her with Fran Morgan. The phone rang twice before the older woman picked up.

"Hello?"

"Fran, it's Penelope," Garcia could barely contain herself, and her words rushed together.

"Penelope? You sound frantic, dear. Are you alright?"

"Yes ma'am," Penelope couldn't stop the tears that sprang to her eyes. "Everything is wonderful. I can't...I don't really know how to tell you this, so I'll just say it. Derek's alive."

There was a moment of heavy silence on the line, then Fran took a shaky breath. "Penelope," her tone was half-worried and half-warning.

Garcia wiped her eyes quickly and shook her head even though Fran couldn't see her. "No, I know what you're thinking. I'm not dreaming, I'm not crazy. He's alive, Fran. Somehow he survived the crash and walked away. He's been unconscious for the last few days, that's why we couldn't find him." It did sound crazy when she said it out loud, but she didn't care. Derek was alive.

"Oh my Lord," Fran breathed. "I need to call Desiree and Sarah and Yvonne and -" Fran stopped suddenly as emotion overcame her. Garcia listened to her sobs of happiness, adding her own joyful tears to the mix. The others stayed respectfully silent, though out of the corner of her eye Garcia could see JJ wiping her own tears away.

"I'll text you the address of the hospital," she told Derek's mother, "and then I'm getting you a ticket on the next flight out here."

"Oh no," Fran protested through her tears, "you don't have to."

"I want to," Garcia insisted. "I know you want to see him yourself."

"Thank you," Fran replied. "Thank you. You are an angel, dear. I'll see you soon. Give that baby boy of mine a kiss for me until I can get there."

"Yes ma'am." They hung up as Hotch pulled into the hospital drive. They parked in the lot outside the ER and jumped out of the vehicle almost as soon as it was stopped.

"Clooney has to stay," Hotch said, cracking the windows a little.

"Stay boy," Garcia scratched the pup behind his ears and closed the door. Just as Hotch had said, they had beat the ambulance to the hospital, and a quick phone call to Rossi confirmed they were about ten minutes out. Garcia busied herself by purchasing Fran's flight and sending all of the information by text. She received another thank you in reply, along with a few hearts, hugs, and kisses that she returned with gusto.

Seconds ticked by with only the drone of the news whispering from a television overhead. Reid was pacing up and down as JJ and Hotch sat stoically. Garcia alternated between circuits with Reid and quiet waiting with the others, her own worry and relief warring inside. Suddenly, without warning, the front doors slid open and the quiet ER was instantly transformed into a bustling cacophony of medical jargon and equipment beeping and buzzing. He was covered with a blanket and a number of tubes and wires, and his skin was ashen and drawn, but the body lying on the gurney was unmistakably Derek Morgan.

"Derek!" Garcia was up and across the room before anyone could grab her. Only Rossi's solid arms around her kept from sliding between the EMTs and the gurney.

"Hey, hey," he kept a firm hold even as his tone softened. "Let them do their job, Penelope. You'll get to see him in a bit. I promise." She fought his grip for a moment, but in that brief span of time Derek and all of his accompanying medicos had disappeared behind swinging doors.

"He's alive," she breathed against Rossi's neck as the senior agent wrapped her in an embrace. "He's alive."

"Yes, he is," Rossi patted her back as the dam broke and her emotions spilled over. Rossi's voice repeated in her ear as she sobbed into his shirt. "Yes, he is."


	26. Chapter 26

Here it is, the beginning of the end. Just one more chapter after this and this saga is complete. I just want to take a moment to thank everyone who came on this ride with me. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would also like to take this moment to state that I am not a medical professional, nor am I an expert on impact trauma, so I didn't detail specific injuries. Undoubtedly some broken bones, maybe some internal bleeding they had to stitch up, head injury, etc. I also have no idea about recovery/release times. Garcia was shot in the abdomen and they released her the next day, so *shrug*. Please accept any errors as my own, and suspend disbelief for just a few more moments. Thank you.

* * *

MORGAN

The first thing he became aware of was the soft sound of voices in the distance. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking away the heavy haze that had settled over his vision. The world around him came into focus a little at a time, and he finally realized he was lying in a hospital bed. He could hear the steady beeping of the monitors next to him, and as their tempo changed the distant voices stopped.

"Derek?"

He turned his head slightly to look at his mother, and he wondered at the deep worry lines that had been etched into her face. It seemed like he'd left her just hours ago, but she'd aged ten years since the last time he'd seen her. At first he panicked, thoughts of lying in a coma for a decade causing his heart rate to spike. But then another face stepped into his field of vision and he relaxed.

Garcia looked exactly as he remembered, if a little more frazzled. He wondered what had happened to him to cause two of the most important people in his life to look like he'd come back from the dead.

"Derek?" His mother moved closer and settled a cool hand on his forehead. "How are you feeling, baby boy?"

He tried to answer, but his throat caught fire the moment he tried to speak. His face must have betrayed his discomfort because Garcia reached immediately for a cup of water sitting on a table next to his bed.

"Here," she tipped the straw toward him and he took a few sips. "Easy," she warned, pulling the cup from his reach. "Not too much."

Satisfied that his throat would cooperate without protest, he tried again. "What happened?"

"Oh my God," Garcia's hand flew to her mouth, "you don't remember. No, that's probably better. You really don't want to remember." She switched directions so quickly that Morgan knew she was feeling overwhelmed. He managed to slip his hand out from underneath the blankets and she latched onto it like a lifeline.

"I remember calling you right before getting on the plane," he told them, noticing her visible relief at his words. "And talking to the older couple across the aisle. I put my headphones on and sort of dozed in and out." He frowned as his memory refused to supply any explanation for his current condition. "That's it," he said. "That's all."

"It's alright, baby," Fran cooed, running her hand over his head in an affectionate gesture she'd often used when they were younger and sick. "I'm going to call the doctor and let him check you over, then tell your friends you're awake. They're all out in the waiting room." She leaned over and kissed his head, and when she stood up there were tears in her eyes. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"I'm okay, Ma," he reassured her. "Just tired."

"Rest then. I'll be right back." She patted his shoulder once before leaving him alone in the room with Garcia.

"What happened?" He asked her directly, knowing she was less likely to skirt around the truth if he surprised her with the question.

"Derek, I don't think -"

"Baby girl, don't do that," he cut her off. "I need to know." Her eyes filled with tears, and he instantly felt bad for being so short with her. "I'm sorry," he squeezed her hand. "I just hate having this whole gap of time missing. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"It's not that," she shook her head and wiped her eyes with her free hand. "I just...I never thought I'd hear that again. Baby girl, I mean." The pure distress in her voice panicked him a bit and he struggled to sit up. He silenced her protests with a look, and with her help he managed to lift the bed into a sitting position.

When he was finally eye level with her, he tried again. "Please tell me what happened."

She had just opened her mouth to answer when the door opened and a team of two nurses and a doctor walked in. Garcia scooted back and let them do their job, but Morgan could see that she was deep in thought. He answered the doctor's questions as truthfully as he could, and nodded in acceptance when the older man ordered him to take things easy for a few weeks. Morgan caught the words "undernourished" and "dehydrated" and wondered again what had happened to him.

Finally, the doctor dismissed the nurses and slung his stethoscope back around his neck. "When this hits you fully, you might want to find someone to talk to. Survivors tend to feel a sense of guilt that's completely normal, but with proper time and care you will come to accept what has happened." He patted Morgan on the shoulder twice, then grabbed his chart. "I'm going to finish this up. We'll be keeping you here for a while longer to monitor your progress, but I'm confident you're out of the proverbial woods. If everything goes well, you could be going home in a few days."

Morgan waited for the door to close before he turned a pointed stare on his best friend. She looked...well, the only word he could think of was defeated. Her shoulders were slumped and her mouth was curved downward in a frown he never wanted to see on her face again. He didn't ask again; he knew she would tell him now.

"Your plane crashed," she started. "It's a big muddled mess and Hotch can probably fill you in on the whys and hows." He sat there stunned for a moment, and Garcia took the cue to continue. "Three days, Derek. I thought you were dead for three days. And then they found you, only you wouldn't wake up and they almost lost you here. You've been unconscious for almost a week, and the doctor's didn't know how well you would be when you woke up. Or if you'd even be you. Strauss gave everyone time off, and no one's really left the hospital since you came back." Her voice caught near the end of her admission, and a single tear spilled over her cheek. He struggled to sit up just a bit more, reaching for her in invitation. "I don't want to hurt you," she shook her head, but he just wriggled his fingers.

"Baby, get over here," he pressed, sliding a wire out of the way as she stood up and folded herself into his arms. He felt her weight settle on the bed, and he scooted over to give her some space as she cried into his shoulder. He whispered soft reassurances as she sobbed, letting out days of turmoil and grief as he stroked her head in an effort to calm her.

She quieted after a while, pulling back from him in embarrassment. He kept a hold of her hand to let her know she didn't have to hide from him, and he finally got a good look at her face.

"Penelope, when was the last time you slept?"

She shrugged in response, wiping the evidence of her tears from her face with her free hand. "Last night," she answered vaguely.

"How long?" He pushed, knowing how restless she could be when under stress.

"Two hours, maybe?" she glanced down sheepishly.

"And the night before that?" He added a lift of his eyebrows, trying to convey the importance of his question.

"I've been under a lot of stress lately, Derek," she snapped, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "My best friend died suddenly and then I had to call your mother and listen to her sob over the phone which led to a crying fit of my own. And to top it off, I had to go out to the site and investigate the whole thing. Then there was the whole week of not knowing if you'd wake up a zombie or if I'd even get to see your smile again. I've run the whole gamut of emotions from anger to depression to hysteria and back again."

"You need to sleep," he told her. When she started to protest, he lifted his arm and placed a finger over her lips. "Think about it, baby girl. If you didn't sleep, then my mom didn't either. She's probably just as exhausted as you are. The others can stay here and keep me company, but I need you to take her back to a hotel and let her get some rest in a real bed." He released her with a satisfied smirk, accepting the half-hearted slap she gave his shoulder.

"You don't play fair, Derek Morgan."

"Of course not," he gave a cheeky grin. "Now get going. I don't want to see you for twelve hours."

"But -"

"Twelve hours," he repeated. "Go." She stood and shuffled toward the door, hesitating as her hand fell on the handle. He knew what she was thinking before she even turned around. "I'll be here when you come back. I promise."

"Alright," she nodded and left, casting the room into an eerie silence. He laid back on the flat hospital pillows and tried to digest the enormity of what she'd told him. A plane crash? He tried for a few moments, but no matter how hard he thought he couldn't remember anything about it. It must have happened fast - too fast for him to have done anything about it.

His mind wandered to his aisle-mates, the lovely couple who would never get to celebrate their anniversary in D.C. The thought made him sad, and he spent the next few minutes committing their faces and names to memory. He made a mental note to ask Garcia to track down any family they might had when they got back to Quantico.

His eyes began to droop as the combination of exhaustion and medication weighed on him. He lowered his bed back down and let the gentle beeping of his heart monitor lull him to sleep.


	27. Chapter 27

Here it is. The end. It's a bittersweet moment. Thanks again to everyone who has read and reviewed.

* * *

HOTCH

Colonel Heffield met them at the small airfield where they would begin their journey home. He gave Hotch a grateful smile as they shook hands.

"I can't thank you enough, Hotch. I heard from the sheriff this morning; Chicago PD picked up Rosenbath's employer. He admitted to everything." Heffield rocked back onto his heels in a display of disbelief. "I've worked my share of crash sites, but this is a first for me."

"The intentional crashing or the fact that nine people walked away from it?" Hotch asked.

"Both," Heffield chuckled. "Honestly, most crashes are minor and hardly anyone actually dies. But ones like this...they're rare. And I thank God for that."

"Thank you for your help on this," Hotch glanced over his shoulder where the rest of his team was gathering their things. Mrs. Morgan was among them, fussing over hers son's shoulder sling and making sure he wasn't lifting anyone's bags.

"I'm glad your man is okay," Heffield said after a moment.

"So am I," Hotch replied quietly. Turning back to the Colonel, he extended his hand again. "If you're ever in DC, give me a call."

"Don't take offense, Hotch, but I hope to God I never have to see you again in the course of my duties. I think our professional lives crossing twice is plenty." He shook Hotch's hand firmly before slipping his sunglasses back on.

"I agree," Hotch laughed. "Take care, Colonel." Hotch left the man standing by his standard issue black sedan and made his way over to where Garcia was handing Morgan's bag off to Rossi before grabbing the injured man's arm and helping him up the small staircase.

"Baby girl, I can manage a few steps by myself," he groused, but there was no real fire behind it. Fran was close behind with her own suitcase firmly in hand.

"Don't fuss, Derek," she warned. "Let her help."

"Yes ma'am," Derek sighed, earning a laugh from the four agents at the base of the stairs.

"Can we keep her around for a while?" Rossi turned to look at Hotch with a grin. Prentiss stifled her own smile when Derek turned to glare at them, but one quick shooing motion from Fran had him turned back around and into the plane as they all burst into laughter.

"Let's go home," Hotch let his team precede him up the stairs, and he waved once more to Colonel Heffield standing off to the side of the tarmac before ducking his head and entering the small jet.

Morgan had been laid out on the couch in the back, complete with a collection of pillows and blankets that could only have been the work of his mother. Garcia was setting up in the chair across from him while the rest of the team spread out to find places to sleep. As Hotch moved toward an open seat next to Rossi, Fran emerged from the bathroom and strode toward him with purpose.

"I just wanted to thank you," she said quietly, glancing back to make sure her son was occupied by Garcia's persistent TLC. "For letting me fly back with you, I mean. I know it's not standard procedure."

"It's no trouble," Hotch returned her grateful smile with a reassuring one of his own. "I've already cleared it with Chief Strauss. She understands the unique circumstances." He lifted his chin to look over her shoulder, laughing at Morgan's put-upon expression as Garcia asked again if he was comfortable. "Your son means a great deal to us. We're all glad he's okay."

Fran nodded in response, sniffing as tears welled in her eyes. "He loves all of you," she said. "I'm always hearing about your adventures."

"Well, I hope he leaves out some of the more gory details," Hotch chuckled. "We'll be taking off in a moment," he added, gesturing to the empty seat beside Garcia. "You should try to get some rest. I know you probably didn't sleep well these past several days."

"Hardly at all, actually," she agreed. "Penelope took me back to the hotel last night, but I was still too wound up to really rest. I think it's all finally catching up with me."

"Let me know if you need anything," he excused himself and sat down just as the engines began to hum. Fran hurried to her chair and buckled in, casting a loving look down at her son.

"Are you alright?" Hotch heard her ask quietly. "Are you experiencing any sort of anxiety?"

"Anxiety?" Morgan shook his head. "No Ma, I'm fine." Hotch knew they had all wondered what his reaction would be to flying so soon after the crash, but he appeared to be handling any residual unease well.

"Actually," Reid interjected lightly, "this is probably the safest flight in the world right now. The odds of one person being in more than one airplane crash in their lifetime are astronomical."

"Thanks kid," Morgan laughed at his mother's expression briefly before reaching across the aisle for her hand. Hotch looked away then, not wanting to intrude on a private moment.

"This was a good day," Rossi told him as their plane lifted off the ground.

"Yeah," Hotch glanced back and nodded in agreement. "It was."

"You know, I'm not sure even the government has paperwork on bringing someone back from the dead," Rossi laughed. "This is going to be an HR nightmare."

Hotch laughed softly, his eyes growing heavy as the pressure of their ascent weighed on him. He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, secure in the knowledge that his team was once again whole. Anything else could wait until tomorrow.


End file.
